THE  MARSHAL 


MARY 
RAYMOND 
SHIPMAN 
ANDREWS 


ANCELES 


THE    MARSHAL 


f  ' 

"  Come  back  again — Come  back  again,"  they  called  from  the  shore. 


THE  MARSHAL 


By 
MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

Authtr  of 

THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 
THE  BETTER  TREASURE.  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
ANDRE  CASTAIGNE 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
THE  BOBBS- MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRE88    Or 

BRAUNWORTH    ft    CO. 

BOOKB'.NDtRB    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


This  book  is  dedicated  to  a  man  who  has  for 
years  had  stories  read  to  him.  All  the  stories 
of  this  writer.  Whether  his  sort  of  stories  or 
not,  whether  in  the  mood  for  them  or  not, 
he  has  listened  with  interest  unfailing,  and  his 
friendly  criticisms,  earnestly  solicited,  have 
many  times  been  met  with  surprise,  indigna 
tion,  and  reflections  on  the  critic's  literary 
qualifications.  It  is  fitting,  therefore,  that  a 
thank-offering  of  my  first  long  story  should  be 
dedicated  to  him — audience,  critic  and  comrade 
through  all  of  them — 

My  Gentlest  Reader 
WILLIAM  SHANKLAND  ANDREWS 


2125415 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTHR  PAGB 

I  A  PROPHECY        .  .... 

II  THE  STRANGER    .  .... 

III  WITHOUT  FEAR    .                           ...  23 

IV  COMING  TO  His  OWN  .                 ...  34 
V  His  STAR    ...                         .        .  41 

VI  A  GAME  OF  CARDS 

VII  WORK  AND  HOPE 61 

VIII  THE  RETREAT  FROM  Moscow      ...  68 

IX  THE  CROWN  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

X  FOR  ALWAYS 

XI  THE  CASTLE  CHILDREN        .                  .         .  101 

XII  THE  STRANGE  BOY 112 

XIII  THE  PROMISE       .                  ....  129 

XIV  WITH  ALL  MY  SOUL 137 

XV  I  SAID  IT,  AND  I  WILL        .                           •  144 

XVI  THE  MOTHER  OF  A  PRINCE   ....  154 

XVII  THE  RUSE I63 

XVIII  AFTER  FIVE  YEARS 177 

XIX  GOOD   NEWS 191 

XX  THE  STONE  STAIRCASE        ....  206 

XXI  A  LOAF  OF  BREAD 215 

XXII  THE  PEASANT  GUIDE 229 

XXIII  REST  AND  SAFETY 235 

XXIV  THE  SACRIFICE 245 

XXV  A  SOCIAL  CRISIS 253 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTKR 

XXVI  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  TROOP        . 

XXVII  HERO  WORSHIP 

XXVIII  A  LESSON  IN  FRENCH 

XXIX  THE  STORY  AGAIN 

XXX  THE  PRINCE  COMES 

XXXI  BROTHERS 

XXXII  How  LUCY  TOLD 

XXXIII  THE  FINEST  THINGS 

XXXIV  ONCE  MORE  AT  HOME 
XXXV  SUMMONED 

XXXVI  THE  PRINCE'S  BRIGHT  SHADOW 

XXXVII  THE  THIRD  WISH 

XXXVIII  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 

XXXIX  THE  BUGLE-CALL 

XL  THE  ACCOLADE  AT  LAST       . 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY 

On  the  wall  of  the  large  hall  of  a  house  in  Virginia 
hang  two  portraits  side  by  side.  Both  are  of  young 
men,  both  in  uniform ;  one  in  the  dark  blue  coat  and 
the  white  and  red  of  an  infantry  officer  of  the  French 
Empire,  the  other  in  that  scarlet  shirt  which  came  to 
be  a  flag,  almost  as  much  as  a  dress,  to  the  heroic  band 
of  insurgents  who  struggled  for  free  Italy  against  the 
Austrians.  The  master  of  the  Virginia  house,  coming 
into  it  to-day,  meets  always  those  two  pairs  of  eyes — 
the  eyes  of  his  grandfather  the  Marquis  and  of  a 
French  peasant  to  whom  his  grandfather's  youth  was 
linked  by  ties  of  more  than  brotherhood. 

It  is  the  chronicle  of  the  latter  which  is  here  written. 
Yet  woven  into  it,  as  in  truth  it  happened,  is  so  much 
of  the  life  of  the  Marquis  Zappi  that  for  any  one  read 
ing  that  chronicle  it  will  be  easy  to  surmise  how  it  hap 
pened  that  the  grandson  of  Pietro  rules  now  in  Carni- 
fax,  the  Virginian  house  where  Pietro's  friend  found 
asylum  after  his  imprisonment  under  the  Austrians.  It 
will  be  easy  to  surmise  how  the  foreign  names  of  this 
story  are  the  names  shouted  one  to  another  to-day  by 
American  girls  and  boys  under  the  live-oaks  of  that 
Virginia  lawn;  how  a  Francois  and  an  Alixe  and  a 
Pietro  and  a  Gaspard  play  together  in  the  new  world 
as  others  of  their  names  played,  a  century  back,  in  an 
older  country. 

In  the  drawer  of  an  old  desk  in  the  Carnifax  library 
is  a  package  of  yellowed  letters.  The  children — Alixe 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY 

and  Frangois  and  Gaspard  and  Pietro — are  allowed  to 
touch  them  sometimes  and  are  told  how  precious  they 
are,  and  a  little  of  the  reason  why.  They  are  shown  the 
signatures  on  the  letters  of  a  Prince  who  became  Em 
peror  of  France,  of  an  officer  of  the  first  Napoleon,  of 
their  own  great-grandfather,  the  last  Italian  Marquis 
Zappi,  the  splendid,  big  old  man  whose  gentleness  and 
whose  lameness  the  oldest  of  them  can  just  remember 
— for  Pietro  never  quite  got  well  from  that  fall  under 
his  horse  which  kept  him  from  fighting  for  Prince 
Louis  at  Boulogne.  Then,  as  the  most  wonderful  thing, 
the  father  shows  them,  last  of  all,  letters  in  the  writing, 
with  the  big  black  signature,  of  one  whom  they  call 
"the  Marshal,"  and  one  youngster  tells  to  another — for 
they  all  know  it — some  bit  of  his  story.  How  he 
climbed  the  church  steeple ;  how  he  saved  the  Prince 
in  the  ruins ;  how  he  escaped  from  the  prison  castle ; 
the  father  tries  to  point  out  to  them  how  courageous 
and  unselfish  a  career  it  was  and  in  what  a  manner  it 
was  crowned  with  all  his  heart's  desire,  and  entire  hap 
piness.  But  the  children  do  not  listen  very  well  to  that, 
for  they  are  young  and  want  facts.  Yet,  as  they  tumble 
out  into  the  hall,  they  are  likely  to  stop  a  moment  be 
fore  the  portraits,  considering.  Francois  stares  hard  at 
the  picture  in  the  uniform  of  the  Empire,  of  the  young 
man  with  large  brown  eyes,  whose  fire  the  artist  has 
caught  not  badly. 

"He  was  very  brave  and  very  good,"  young  Francois 
says  proudly,  as  a  child  says  words  many  times  re 
peated  to  him.  "I  have  his  name.  I  shall  try  to  be  like 
him." 

It  is  perhaps  enough  of  success  for  a  life  that  a  child 
coming  after  should  find  in  it  a  standard  to  measure  his 
own.  Yet,  those  who  knew  the  first  Frangois  believed 
that  no  other  could  be  like  him.  M.  R.  S.  A, 


THE    MARSHAL 


THE  MARSHAL 


CHAPTER   I 

A   PROPHECY 

IT  was  Frangois  who  had  his  way.  Pierre  clam 
ored  for  the  story  of  the  old  witch  and  the 
horses ;  Marie  begged  to  hear  about  the  white  ducks 
and  the  princess;  Tomas,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 
demanded  the  episode  of  the  man  who  fell  off  the 
church  steeple;  each  child  wished  a  particular  tale. 
Half  a  dozen  high,  little  French  voices  floated  shrilly 
out  into  the  garden,  on  a  sunshiny  morning  of  1820 
from  the  great  entry  of  an  old  farm-house  in  the 
valley  under  the  Jura  Mountains.  The  grandmother, 
sitting  white-capped  in  the  center  of  the  hubbub, 
heard  one  more  willingly  than  the  others,  for  not 
only  was  Francois  her  best  loved,  but  also  the  story 
he  asked  for  was  the  story  she  liked  to  tell. 

In  the  large  kitchen  beyond  the  open  door  the 
sun  lay  in  patches  on  the  bare  scrubbed  floor,  and 
the  mother  moved  swiftly,  getting  dinner  ready 


2  THE    MARSHAL 

against  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  father  should  come 
in  from  the  fields;  it  was  the  grand-mere's  hour  to 
amuse  the  children.  And  to-day  they  were  all 
pleading  at  once  for  a  story,  clapping  hands,  jump 
ing  up  and  down  as  if  life  depended  on  the  choice. 
Suddenly,  in  the  excess  of  enthusiasm,  Tomas  and 
Francois  and  Pierre  were  in  a  heap,  sprawling  at 
her  feet  on  the  earth  floor  of  the  entry. 

"Stop,  stop,"  said  the  grandmother.  "Good 
children  do  not  go  so  fast,"  and  she  carefully  sorted 
out  the  heap.  "You,  Francois,  you  are  too  quick — 
you  will  finish  by  hurting  yourself.  Stand  here 
quiet,  near  me,  and  listen  well,"  and,  her  arm  about 
him,  she  drew  the  boy  close. 

"You  will  tell  my  tale,  grand-mere — the  tale  of 
'Napoleon  Comes'?"  he  asked  eagerly,  and  the 
grandmother  smiled ;  it  was  what  she  wished  to  tell. 

And  now,  with  the  faces  of  the  children  turned 
toward  her,  she  pushed  the  big  horn- framed  glasses 
up  on  her  brow,  buried  her  knitting  needles  deep  in 
scarlet  wool,  and  folding  her  work  carefully,  laid 
it  in  the  work-box.  All  five  watched  the  ceremony, 
the  methodical  habit  of  a  lifetime,  and  little  Marie 
gave  a  trembling  sigh  as  it  ended.  Only  that  sound 
broke  the  stillness,  and  in  a  moment  the  grand 
mother's  voice  began. 


A    PROPHECY  3 

"Francois,  if  you  pinch  your  brother  you  are  not 
a  good  child,  and  can  not  listen  to  the  story,"  she 
admonished.  "Be  quiet,  then,  and  you  shall  hear 
how  the  Emperor  came  to  this  house,  and  sat  in  the 
great  room  there — Napoleon!" 

The  five  pairs  of  eyes  followed  hers  as  she 
glanced  toward  the  door.  "Yes,  at  that  table  he 
sat,"  the  gentle  voice  went  on,  "with  his  great  offi 
cers  about  him,  with  their  uniforms  and  bright 
facings  and  gold  buttons,  and  their  swords  clanking 
as  they  walked,  and  their  three-cornered  hats,  wav 
ing  with  plumes,  on  their  heads.  But  tiens — I  must 
go  back — I  must  tell  it  rightly,  the  story  of  Na 
poleon."  At  the  name  the  grandmother's  head 
seemed  to  lift,  and  dignity  was  in  her  manner.  The 
boy  against  her  arm,  his  brown  eyes,  of  uncommon 
size  and  intensity,  fastened  on  hers,  thrilled. 

"Yes,  grand-mere,  from  the  beginning,"  he  said 
earnestly. 

Smiling  again,  the  grandmother  began.  "You 
must  know,  my  children,  that  it  was  on  a  day  in  the 
month  of  May,  in  the  year  1813,  that  he  came.  You, 
Lucie,  and  you,  Pierre,  and  Marie  were  not  born, 
only  Franqois  and  Tomas.  Frangois  was  the  older 
• — not  quite  three  years  old.  The  mother  had  gone 
to  care  for  your  Aunt  Lucie,  who  was  ill,  and  I  kept 


4  THE    MARSHAL 

the  house  for  your  father.  It  was  the  year  of  the 
great  conscription,  when  the  Emperor  took  all  the 
men  to  fight,  not  only  the  strong  ones,  but  the  boys, 
and  the  old  and  infirm,  if  they  might  but  drag  them 
selves  at  the  tail  of  a  regiment.  So  the  few  men  who 
were  not  under  the  flag  were  sorely  needed  by  their 
families,  for  it  was  necessary,  if  the  women  and 
children  were  not  to  starve,  that  some  should  stay 
to  work  in  the  fields.  Your  father  was  of  the  few 
who  had  escaped  in  our  village  of  Vieques. 

"One  morning  a  man  appeared  in  the  village  and 
said  that  Napoleon  would  pass  this  way  within  a 
few  hours.  No  one  quite  believed,  yet  there  was 
excitement,  and  the  people  stood  about  chattering, 
restless,  when  suddenly — I  can  see  it  as  if  it  were 
yesterday — a  half  dozen  horsemen  clattered  from 
the  turn  of  the  road  up  there  and  galloped  down  the 
street  and  on  beyond.  The  crowd  stared.  Then 
every  one  talked  at  once;  there  was  a  great  confu 
sion.  But  at  last  a  good  old  man,  well  known  to 
us  all,  raised  his  hand  for  silence,  and  as  we  listened 
he  told  us  that  probably  it  was  not  the  great  army 
which  would  pass  through  Vieques,  but  only  Na 
poleon  and  his  staff.  We  were  not  on  the  road 
which  led  to  Germany,  and  the  great  army  was 
hurrying  there.  It  was  probable  that  the  Emperor 


A    PROPHECY  5 

turned  from  his  road  to  take  the  lists  of  men  and  of 
resources  in  the  village." 

There  was  a  stir  against  the  grandmother's  arm. 
"Comment?"  she  asked. 

"Please,  grand-mere,  don't  tell  what  the  old  man 
said,"  Francois  spoke.  "It  is  so  long  before  you 
come  to  Napoleon."  The  child's  manner  was  im 
petuous,  but  very  winning.  The  old  woman  felt  the 
charm  of  it. 

"You  are  always  eager,  Francois,"  she  said. 
"Very  well,  then.  Two  young  men  were  placed 
down  the  road  to  warn  us,  so  that  the  men  of  the 
place  might  hide  on  the  mountain  to  escape  being 
taken  for  soldiers.  All  that  day  nothing  happened, 
but  the  next  morning  toward  half  past  ten,  as  I 
prepared  the  dinner,  there  was  a  sudden  noise  in 
the  street,  and  your  father  came  in. 

"  'My  mother,'  he  said,  'Napoleon  comes.' 

"Outside  I  heard  the  neighbors  calling  the  same 
two  words — 'Napoleon  comes' — one  called  it  to  an 
other.  If  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  had  sounded  the 
end  of  the  world,  they  could  not  have  had  more 
fear.  Then  your  father  kissed  me,  and  kneeled  and 
held  you,  Fran9ois,  and  Tomas,  in  his  arms,  and  I 
saw  tears,  but  he  was  brave — but  yes.  'Courage, 


6  THE    MARSHAL 

little  mother/  he  said,  'for  me  and  for  the  babies. 
Courage.' 

"And  at  that  your  father,  who  was  my  little  lad 
once,  you  know,  my  dears,  had  gone,  and  I  stood 
with  an  ache  where  my  heart  should  have  been,  and 
for  a  moment  I  was  stupid  and  could  not  think. 
Francois  held  to  my  apron,  and  I  lifted  Tomas. 
'What  are  you  crying  about,  naughty  grand-mere?' 
asked  Tomas.  So  I  dried  the  tears,  and  Francois 
began  to  say  that  he  was  sleepy.  I  undressed  him 
and  the  baby  and  put  them  to  bed  for  their  nap  in 
the  little  chamber  which  opens  into  the  great  one, 
and  as  I  left  them  asleep  and  came  again  into  the 
large  room  there,  with  its  great  oak  table,  I  stood  a 
moment  and  thought  of  your  dear  father  flying 
through  the  woods,  and  of  how  I  was  left  to  take 
care  of  his  home  and  his  children.  And  the  thought 
of  a  duty  to  be  done  brought  calmness. 

"As  I  stood  so,  like  a  blow  there  was  a  rush  of 
galloping  horses  in  a  shower  of  noise  down  the 
street,  and  my  heart  stopped,  for  the  horses  drew 
up  at  this  house.  So  that  I  was  still  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  when  the  door  opened — " 

Francois'  hand  was  laid  against  her  cheek.  "The 
door  into  the  great  entry — that  door  there?"  he  de 
manded  in  a  whisper. 


A    PROPHECY  7 

"But  yes,  mon  p'tit — that  door." 

Four  pairs  of  round  eyes  followed  Francois'  gaze 
that  turned  to  the  panels  of  heavy  oak. 

"It  opened,  that  door  there,  and  against  the  light 
I  saw  men  crowding  in  the  entry.  They  wore  uni 
forms  of  bright  colors,  and  swords  hung  at  their 
sides,  and  on  their  heads  were  hats  with  trimmings 
of  gold.  Then  I  saw — Napoleon.  I  knew  him  at 
once,  though  I  had  never  seen  his  face,  though  his 
figure  was  perhaps  the  smallest.  One  knows  the 
lion  from  the  common  beasts.  I  stood  quietly,  re 
membering  only  that  I  must  guard  my  son's  chil 
dren,  and  he  spoke.  With  a  step  toward  me  he 
spoke  in  a  kind  voice,  half  smiling. 

"  'Madame,'  he  said,  'will  you  let  us  use  this  room 
and  this  table  for  an  hour?  You  shall  not  be  dis 
turbed  in  your  work.' ' 

The  grandmother  stopped  and  lifted  her  hand, 
and  her  head  was  up  as  if  listening.  "Ticns!  I 
hear  his  voice  now!"  she  whispered,  and  the  chil 
dren  started,  as  if  expecting  to  catch  a  note  of  the 
tones  that  had  sounded  here — the  tones  that  had 
carried  across  the  world.  The  story  went  on. 

"I  made  my  courtesy  to  these  great  gentlemen  as 
I  had  been  taught,  and  I  found  myself  saying  quite 
easily  to  his  majesty  the  Emperor,  as  easily  as  if  I 


8  THE    MARSHAL 

talked  to  Monsieur  le  Cure,  to  whom  I  was  accus 
tomed,  that  he  was  welcome;  that  I  would  serve 
him  gladly  if  he  wished  to  command  me.  And  then 
I  left  them.  There  was  that  about  the  great 
Emperor  which  made  one  happy  to  be  of  use  to  him. 
I  did  not  understand  it,  but  I  felt  it,  as  I  had  heard 
the  men  talk  about  it  who  had  seen  him.  My  son 
was  flying  from  him,  he  was  draining  the  land  of 
our  men,  of  our  comfort  and  happiness,  and  yet 
here  I  was,  willing  and  glad  to  do  the  least  or  the 
greatest  thing  for  him.  He  was  more  than  a  man, 
Napoleon.  As  I  left  the  room,  at  the  door  I  saw  a 
big  soldier  with  an  enormous  fur  shako  on  his  head 
and  a  saber  in  his  hand,  who  mounted  guard,  and 
there  were  at  each  door  and  at  each  window  soldiers 
on  guard — think  of  that,  my  children — our  peaceful 
house  surrounded  with  grand  soldiers.  I  could  not 
help  being  a  little  proud  as  I  saw  it.  And  before 
the  entry  here  a  crowd  of  huge  horses  stamped  and 
snorted,  so  full  of  spirit  that  the  grooms  could 
scarcely  hold  them.  I  went  quietly  into  the  kitchen 
and  began,  as  in  the  ordinary  way,  to  get  dinner, 
but  I  was  so  dazed  with  what  was  happening  that  I 
was  not  entirely  capable.  I  could  not  seem  to  make 
the  soup  as  usual.  When,  suddenly,  I  heard  a  child 
cry,  and  with  no  thought  then  but  of  my  babies,  I 


A    PROPHECY  9 

flew  to  the  door  of  the  great  room  and  stood  look 
ing,  for  I  could  not  pass  the  sentinel. 

"Among  the  officers  in  their  uniforms  there  lay 
on  the  floor  little  Francois  in  his  night-dress,  and 
all  the  officers  looked  at  him  and  laughed — a  great 
shout  of  laughing  which  drowned  the  sound  of  my 
coming.  I  knew  later  what  had  happened,  for  the 
mayor  of  the  village  was  there  with  his  lists,  and  he 
told  me.  The  child,  sleeping  in  the  farther  room, 
had  waked  at  the  voices  and  had  climbed  down  from 
his  crib  and  toddled  out  to  see.  The  glitter  of  the 
uniforms  must  have  pleased  him,  and  as  they  all 
bent  over  the  papers  on  the  table  he  had  pulled  at 
the  sword  of  one  whom  I  afterward  knew  to  be 
the  great  Marshal  Ney.  He  wore  a  dark  coat  all 
heavy  with  gold  lace,  my  children,  and  white  panta 
loons  and  high  shining  black  boots,  and  across  his 
breast  a  scarlet  ribbon.  He  sat  next  the  Emperor. 
The  marshal,  turning  sharply  at  the  tug,  knocked 
the  little  one  over.  It  was  then  Francois  cried  out, 
and  I  ran  to  him.  But  when  I  reached  the  door  a 
young  general,  whose  name  I  never  knew,  had  set 
the  child  on  his  feet,  and  the  others,  some  standing 
about  him,  some  sitting  in  their  chairs,  which  they 
pushed  back  to  see  better,  some  leaning  across  the 
table,  all  stared  at  him.  Without  doubt  it  was  a 


io  THE    MARSHAL 

sight  which  they  had  not  seen  lately,  a  baby  in  its 
night-dress,  and  without  doubt  it  seemed  homelike 
to  some.  However  that  may  be,  they  were  laughing 
like  schoolboys,  and  it  was  Napoleon  himself  who 
spoke  as  I  peered  under  the  sentinel's  arm.  He 
shook  his  finger  at  his  officer. 

"  'Marshal,  Marshal,'  he  cried,  'are  you  not  too 
quick  to  overthrow  so  young  a  soldier,  so  full  of 
love  for  arms?' 

"And  he  put  out  his  hand  and  pinched  the  little 
one's  ear,  which  I  have  heard  was  a  sign  of  good 
humor  from  the  Emperor.  The  marshal  laughed 
also,  and  the  young  general  who  had  set  the  child 
on  his  feet  spoke  quickly. 

"  'Your  Majesty,'  he  said,  and  he  patted  the  little 
head  as  he  said  it,  'Monsieur  le  Marechctl  owes  a 
reparation  to  this  soldier  of  the  empire.  Will  not 
your  Majesty  order  him  to  draw  the  sword  which 
is  contested  between  them  and  confer  knighthood 
with  it?  It  is  an  ancient  custom,  the  accolade,  and 
would  settle  the  difference  between  these  gentlemen 
very  pleasantly.' 

"And  the  officers  laughed  again  noisily  as  the 
general  spoke  of  the  great  marshal  and  the  little 
white-gowned  baby  as  'these  gentlemen'.  But  Na 
poleon  drew  his  eyebrows  together — yet  he  smiled, 


A    PROPHECY  ii 

"  'Not  the  marshal,'  he  said,  'but  I  will  do  it.  As 
you  say,  General,  the  accolade  is  an  old  right  of 
kings,  unused  for  centuries,  but  none  the  less  a 
right — held  in  abeyance.  I  am  the  monarch  of 
France' — and  his  voice  was  like  the  flash  of  a  blade 
— 'I  am  the  monarch  of  France,'  he  said,  'and  I  may 
give  nobility  where  I  choose.  For  his  courage  I 
shall  knight  this  young  Frenchman ;  who  knows  but 
his  life  may  some  time  mean  much  to  me  or  my 
house?  There  are  queer  twists  in  the  rope  of  his 
tory — a  throne  might  depend  on  this  lad's  spirit  as 
well  as  on  another's.'  The  Emperor  seemed  to 
joke,  for  he  laughed  a  little,  yet  there  was  a  sound 
in  his  voice  as  if  some  part  was  serious.  He  turned 
sharply  to  the  mayor.  'What  is  the  child's  name  ?' 

"The  mayor  was  our  friend  and  knew  the  babies. 
'Francois  Beaupre,  Sire,'  he  answered  tremblingly. 

"The  Emperor  gave  a  short  nod  to  the  general, 
who  still  kept  his  hand  on  the  dark  little  head. 
'Make  him  kneel,'  he  said.  'Marshal,  your  sword.' 

"The  blade  clattered  out  of  the  sheath  in  front 
of  the  baby's  eyes,  and  he  blinked  as  he  looked  up, 
but  did  not  draw  away  an  inch,  and  as  the  young 
general  pressed  him  to  his  fat  knees  he  put  his  hands 
together  and  shut  his  eyes,  for  he  thought  he  was 
to  pray  to  the  good  God.  So  the  child  knelt  before 


12  THE    MARSHAL 

the  Emperor,  thinking  of  his  prayers.  It  was  still 
for  a  moment,  and  all  the  officers  stood  up  silent, 
and  then  the  Emperor  took  the  marshal's  sword  and 
struck  the  baby's  shoulder  a  light  blow  with  the  flat 
of  it. 

"  'Rise  Chevalier  Francois  Beaupre/  he  said 
clearly,  and  in  the  pause  he  added,  with  a  look  in 
his  eyes  as  if  one  gazed  forward :  'Some  day,  per 
haps,  a  Marshal  of  France  under  another  Bona 
parte.'  " 

The  grandmother's  voice  stopped,  and  the  garden 
and  the  entry  that  had  been  full  of  the  jingle  of 
harness  and  the  clatter  of  steel,  the  stir  and  color  of 
soldiery,  was  suddenly  hushed  and  empty.  The 
ghosts  of  the  great  which  had  risen  at  the  simple 
magic  of  her  memory  dissolved  into  mists  of  past 
years.  But  the  glory  and  the  awe  of  the  name  of 
the  Emperor  hung  about  them.  The  children  hud 
dled,  their  eyes  devouring  her,  their  faces  close, 
listening  yet.  A  little  girl's  voice  spoke. 

"And,  grand-mere,  it  was — ' 

"It  was  Francois,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "The  sword  of  the  Emperor 
touched  him  here — I  saw  it."  The  child's  frame 
quivered  as  if  he  felt  again  that  blow  of  the  acco 
lade. 


Some   day,   perhaps,   a   Marshal   of   France. 


A    PROPHECY  13 

Then  Tomas,  always  unimpressed,  began  to  sing 
jeeringly : 

"Francois  Beaupre, 
Nous  devous  1'admirer — 
Notre  grand  chevalier, 
Francois  Beaupre — ' 

And  the  spell  was  broken.  The  children  scat 
tered,  shouting,  out  into  the  sunshine  of  the  garden. 
But  Francois  stood  at  his  grandmother's  side,  not 
hearing  or  seeing  them ;  staring  at  the  heavy  panels 
of  the  oak  door  as  if  he  beheld  the  figures  of  Na 
poleon  and  his  generals  pass  that  way  again,  and  in 
his  child  eyes  smoldered  the  inner  light  of  a  seer  of 
visions. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    STRANGER 

AT  the  end  of  the  long  street  of  Vieques,  next 
the  church,  stood  the  house  of  Francois  Beau- 
pre,  the  father  of  little  Francois  and  Tomas  and 
the  rest.  The  villagers  called  him  "Le  Francois" 
and  his  wife  "La  Claire" ;  this  showed  them  of  a 
certain  importance,  for  one  spoke  as  if  there  were 
no  others.  The  house  was  the  largest  in  the  village, 
and  its  great  earth-floored  entry,  leading  at  the 
right  into  the  living-rooms,  at  the  left  into  the 
stable,  was  twenty  feet  square.  There,  on  sunshiny 
spring  days,  the  grandmother  would  sit  on  the  long 
•bench  against  the  wall,  always  with  her  knitting, 
always  with  the  children  about  her,  and  the  cows 
would  file  past  and  into  the  wide  doorway  at  the 
left,  switching  their  tails,  with  mild  big  eyes  gazing 
gently  at  the  group.  In  front  was  the  flower  gar 
den,  and  little  Lucie's  head  was  not  so  tall  as  the 
patch  of  red  peonies  whose  great  blossoms  the 
breeze  tossed  in  one  corner  of  it. 

14 


THE    STRANGER  15 

A  beautiful  garden  it  was,  the  finest  in  the  vil 
lage,  yet  this  was  not  the  pride  of  "La  Claire",  the 
wife  of  "Le  Francois".  She  had  two  vanities,  the 
neighbors  said :  her  tiny  feet  and  her  garden,  but 
not  this  garden  of  flowers.  Outside  of  the  village, 
half  a  mile  away,  on  the  road  to  the  old  chateau, 
were  the  fields  where,  laid  out  in  trim  rows,  flour 
ished  all  the  vegetables  of  all  the  villagers.  The 
little  houses  sat  in  the  long  street,  the  old  voie 
Romaine,  the  Roman  road  built  before  the  Christian 
era  and  still  kept  up.  The  houses  were  set  too 
closely  to  allow  space  for  the  great  beds  of  cab 
bages,  beans,  peas,  turnips,  parsley,  endive,  chic 
ory,  carrots.  So  the  cottages  nestled  elbow  to  elbow 
in  the  street,  and  the  gardens  in  the  fields  outside- 
one  might  see  them  by  looking — stretched  even 
long  fingers  through  the  valley  almost  to  the  slope 
that  led  to  the  ruined  castle. 

Frangois,  the  lad,  liked  to  be  sent  there  with  his 
mother's  big  basket  to  bring  back  vegetables  for  the 
family  meal.  It  was  quiet  in  the  long  sunshiny 
rows  of  growing  things,  and  the  earthy  smell  was 
pleasant,  and  a  boy  who  had  much  to  think  about 
could  think  well  as  he  broke  off  stems  of  chard  or 
dug  into  the  clean  damp  brown  earth  for  lettuce — 
"la  salade" .  Moreover,  he  would  ask  sometimes : 


1 6  THE    MARSHAL 

"Must  I  hurry  to-day,  mother?  Might  I  go  on 
to  the  chateau  for  a  little  while  ?" 

And  often  La  Claire  would  smile  at  the  boy  and 
answer:  "But  yes,  my  Fra^ois,  you  may  go; 
there  is  no  hurry." 

And  then  came  hours  to  be  remembered.  Fran- 
9ois  remembered  them  many  years  after.  He  would 
set  the  basket  carefully  in  a  safe  spot  at  the  very 
end  of  the  row  of  white-grown  lettuce  heads,  and 
then  he  would  cross  the  field,  brushing  through  the 
millions  of  scarlet  poppies,  higher  than  the  blades 
of  wheat,  and  climb  up  the  steep  hillside  and  scram 
ble  over  the  fence,  and  be  in  the  old  castle.  It  was 
a  good  road,  because  the  people  of  Vieques  used  it 
often  for  going  to  and  from  the  pastures  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  with  the  cows.  At  the  end  was  a 
gate  which  closed  the  way  to  wagons  or  cattle; 
however,  a  person  on  foot  might  open  it  and  go  be 
yond.  Inside  were  the  ruins. 

On  an  afternoon  in  July  in  the  year  of  1820, 
Francois,  being  ten  years  old  and  a  dreamer,  came 
alone  through  the  gate  and  sat  down  with  his  short 
legs  dangling  over  an  ancient  wall,  fifteen  feet  sheer 
down.  He  sat  there,  quite  comfortable  and  secure, 
and  kicked  his  heels,  and  thought  of  his  brilliant 
future,  and  also  of  the  story  of  the  great  dog  and 


THE    STRANGER  17 

the  treasure.  This  ruin,  the  ancient  chateau  of 
Vieques,  had  a  legend.  Each  child  of  the  village 
knew  it  before  he  could  remember  how — it  had  been 
so  with  all  of  them  always — grandfathers  had  heard 
it  from  grandfathers  for  hundreds  of  years.  The 
tradition  ran  that  ages  back,  in  the  time  of  Caesar, 
fifty  years  after  Christ,  a  Roman  governor  in  this 
Gallic  province  had  built  a  formidable  castle  on  this 
hill  outside  the  village — "Vicus",  the  Romans  called 
it  simply,  "the  village" — and  "Vicus",  changed  to 
"Vieques",  it  has  stayed.  The  castle  had  great 
granaries  to  hold  the  grain  which  the  governor 
tortured  from  the  peasants  and  sent  to  Rome  to  sell. 
This  little  "incus"  was  on  the  main  road  to  Rome, 
which  made  it  convenient  for  the  governor.  So  he 
grew  rich  by  oppression,  and  the  gold  wrung  from 
the  people  he  piled  in  cellars  deep  in  his  castle. 
When  it  came  to  be  a  great  amount  he  sent  far  to 
the  north  and  got  a  huge  dog,  and  this  dog  he 
trained  to  a  terrible  fierceness,  so  that  any  one 
coming  near  him  in  the  long  underground  corridors 
where  he  guarded  the  treasure  was  sure  to  be  torn 
in  pieces,  except  always  the  governor.  The  gov 
ernor  knew  well  that  the  people  hated  him,  even 
those  closest  to  him,  and  this  savage  beast  was  his 
only  friend,  and  his  reliance. 


1 8  THE    MARSHAL 

For  years  things  went  on  in  this  way,  the  gov 
ernor  grinding  the  peasants,  and  the  giant  dog 
guarding  him  and  his  treasure,  till  at  last  there  came 
a  thunderbolt — the  governor  was  sent  for  to  come  to 
Rome  to  give  an  account  of  the  riches  which  he  had 
kept  from  the  emperor.  He  had  to  go,  but  he  left 
the  dog  in  charge,  and  the  night  after  he  was  gone 
the  peasantry  gathered  and  set  fire  to  the  chateau  and 
burned  it  to  the  ground,  and  the  dog  and  the  treas 
ure  were  buried  in  it,  and  there  they  are  to  this  day. 
The  people  of  Vieques  believe  that  if  a  man  will  go 
to  dig  for  that  treasure  and  will  stay  till  midnight, 
that  at  twelve  exactly  a  colossal  dog  will  rise  from 
the  ruined  stones  and  come,  breathing  flames ;  in  his 
mouth  will  be  the  key  of  the  treasure-vault,  and 
back  of  him  will  stand  the  ghost  of  the  Roman 
governor  wrapped  in  white,  his  face  covered.  And 
if  the  man  will  be  bold  enough  to  take  the  key  from 
the  flaming  mouth,  then  dog  and  governor  will 
vanish  in  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  in  front  of  the 
daring  one  will  rise  the  door  of  the  treasure- vault, 
and  he  may  turn  the  key  and  go  in  and  help  himself. 
The  people  of  Vieques  believe  this  because  the 
grandfathers  have  known  from  their  grandfathers 
how  there  were  men  in  old  times  braver  than  com 
mon  who  stayed  till  midnight  in  the  ruins  and  saw 


THE    STRANGER  19 

the  dog  and  the  ghost — but  none  was  brave  enough 
ever  to  take  the  key  from  the  dog's  mouth. 

The  child  Francois,  his  heels  hanging  over  the 
drop  of  the  ancient  wall,  the  shadows  of  a  large 
chestnut  tree  playing  back  and  forth  across  his  little 
figure  and  across  the  broken  piles  of  grass-grown 
stones  which  had  been  the  castle  granaries,  revolved 
this  tale  in  his  mind.  The  picture  of  the  huge  dog 
breathing  fire  and  that  ghostly  vision  of  the  pitiless 
governor,  white,  face-covered,  dimly  outlined  in  the 
shadows,  gave  the  boy  a  thrill  of  agreeable  horror, 
but  not  a  thrill  of  fear.  Fear  had  been,  those  who 
knew  him  said,  left  out  of  this  lad. 

"He  does  not  think  of  himself,"  said  the  grand 
mother  proudly,  "so  he  can  not  fear  for  himself." 

Franqois  considered,  and,  feeling  no  fear  in  his 
soul,  decided  that  he  was  the  man  destined  to  take 
the  key  out  of  the  dog's  mouth  and  get  the  treasure, 
which  he  would  at  once  transfer  intact  to  his 
mother.  He  had  no  need  for  treasure;  there  were 
things  more  important.  It  was  for  him  to  become 
a  Marshal  of  France.  Napoleon  had  said  so;  it 
must  be  so;  but  he  should  like,  on  the  way  to  this 
goal,  to  face  the  dog  and  take  the  key  and  give  his 
mother  the  treasure.  He  knew  she  would  like  it, 
for  he  had  heard  her  say  to  his  father  only  yester- 


20  THE    MARSHAL 

day,  "Ah,  Frangois,  if  we  had  a  little  more  silver 
we  could  do  that!"  It  would  be  pleasant  to  arrange 
that  for  his  mother,  and  shortly  after  to  become  a 
Marshal  of  France. 

In  the  gaiety  of  the  thought,  and  feeling  both 
ambitions  all  but  accomplished  by  his  decision,  he 
lifted  himself  on  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  kicked 
out  lightly  over  the  abyss.  As  he  kicked  there  was 
a  sudden  strong  grip  on  his  shoulder;  he  was  jerked 
backward  and  rolled  on  the  grass. 

"Are  you  tired  of  life  at  this  age  then?"  a  strident 
voice  demanded,  and  Franqois  lay  on  his  back  and 
regarded,  wondering,  at  ease,  the  bronzed  lined  face 
of  a  big  man  standing  over  him.  The  two  stared, 
and  then :  "You  believe  yourself  to  be  an  eagle, 
and  you  are  on  the  point  of  flying?  Is  that  it?" 
The  abrupt  virile  voice  threw  the  questions  at  him, 
and  Frangois  smiled  sunnily.  He  knew  this  to  be 
sarcasm,  though  he  did  not  know  that  name  for  it, 
and  from  the  sweet  soundness  of  his  soul  the  arrow 
of  sarcasm  slid  off  always  as  a  glancing  brightness 
and  left  no  poison.  Francois  smiled ;  then  laughed 
with  assurance  of  the  other's  friendliness  up  into 
the  strange  man's  face.  He  got  to  his  feet  and 
stood. 

"No,  M'sieur,"  he  said  politely.    "I  did  not  think 


THE    STRANGER  21 

myself  an  eagle.  I  was  only  pleased  at  thinking 
what  I  am  going  to  be  some  day.  Something  much 
better  than  an  eagle,"  and  he  nodded  with  a  confi 
dence  in  the  stranger's  sympathy. 

"Ah!"  The  deep  strong  voice  seemed  to  be 
fired  like  a  cannon-shot  from  the  ambush  of  the 
bristling  mustache.  "Great  things  are  likely  to 
happen  to  you,  it  seems  then,  you  small  peasant. 
Is  it  permitted  to  ask  what  magnificence  it  is  that 
you  are  to  be?" 

"Certainly  it  is  permitted,  M'sieur,"  Francois 
answered  in  his  courageous,  courteous  way.  "I  am 
one  day  to  be  a  Marshal  of  France,  M'sieur." 

The  man,  big,  soldierly,  aggressive,  and  the  little 
peasant  boy,  gentle,  humbly-clad,  unafraid,  faced 
each  other  a  minute  in  silence,  each  interested  sim 
ply  in  the  other  as  in  a  new  experience,  each  un 
conscious  of  himself  and  of  the  other's  interest. 

Then,  "Ah!"  the  man  said  again.  "It  is  a  good 
business  which  you  have  honored  by  your  choice. 
You  are  without  doubt  a  close  friend  of  his  gracious 
majesty,  King  Louis  Eighteenth,  our  ruler?" 

"No,  M'sieur,"  little  Francois  hastened  to  set 
him  right.  "I  am  not  of  that  party,  M'sieur.  Me, 
I  am  Bonapartist.  I  shall  one  day  be  a  'Marshal  of 
France  under  another  Bonaparte.' '  The  lad's  large 


22  THE    MARSHAL 

eyes  lifted  and  his  gaze  floated  away  across  the 
afternoon  landscape  as  he  quoted  in  a  lowered  voice 
the  words  which  the  Emperor  had  spoken  over  him. 

The  stranger  watched  him,  astonished,  and  then 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  slim  shoulder  in  its  home 
spun  blouse,  and  his  grave  voice  was  gentle.  "My 
child,  be  careful  how  you  say  words  like  those;  you 
may  get  your  father  into  trouble.  It  is  a  good  be 
lief  to  keep  in  one's  heart,  and  you  and  I  may  yet 
shout  'Vive  I'Empereur'  for  a  Napoleon  again.  Yes, 
and  you  may  be  Marshal — who  knows?  But  keep 
your  tongue  inside  your  teeth,  boy;  now  is  not  the 
time  to  talk.  And  do  not  hang  over  old  walls  when 
the  kicking  fit  is  on  you,  else  we  shall  have  one  great 
man  less  in  the  world  shortly.  I  must  go  on.  Good 
day,  my  friend,  the  Marshal." 

And  Frangois,  as  he  had  been  taught,  put  his  heels 
together  and  made  a  low  bow,  and  answered  quite 
simply,  "Good  day,  M'sieur." 


CHAPTER   III 

WITHOUT  FEAR 

THE  gilder  was  at  work  gilding  the  great  ball 
on  top  of  the  church  steeple.  Every  twenty 
years  this  had  to  be  done,  and  it  was  an  event  in  the 
village.  It  was  said  that  it  cost  much  money ;  there 
were  rumors  that  it  cost  as  much  as  a  thousand 
francs.  The  gilder  knew,  of  course,  and  the  Cure 
knew,  but  neither  of  them  told.  Moreover,  it  was 
dangerous,  and,  like  all  dangers,  fascinating. 

The  boys  of  Vieques  stood  in  groups  in  the  street 
with  their  heads  bent  back,  watching  the  tiny  figure 
of  a  man  that  crept  up  an  invisible  ladder  far  in  the 
air,  lashed  to  the  side  of  the  steeple.  Up  and  up  it 
went,  like  a  fly,  crawling  on  the  fleche,  and  there 
was  a  sinking  feeling  in  each  boy's  stomach  which 
was  delightful,  to  think  how  at  any  moment  that 
creeping  black  spot  which  was  the  gilder  might  fall 
down,  down,  and  be  dashed  to  pieces.  They  wished 
no  ill  to  the  gilder,  who  was  a  stranger  not  of  their 
village,  nevertheless  it  would  be  a  proud  thing  to 

23 


24  THE    MARSHAL 

say  that  they  had  seen  him  killed.  Life  and  suffer 
ing  mean  nothing  to  a  boy,  -but  an  event  is  a  pleas 
ure.  Many  of  the  girls  turned  away  their  heads 
and  cried  out,  "I  can't  look;  I'm  afraid  he  will  be 
killed."  And  at  this  the  boys  felt  superior  because 
they  were  not  afraid  but  rather  hopeful  of  a  catas 
trophe.  There  are  points  of  difference  between 
boys  and  girls. 

Francois,  however,  did  not  think  about  the  gilder 
at  all,  yet  his  mind  was  on  the  gilding  of  the  ball 
every  minute  of  the  day.  He  wished  earnestly, 
passionately,  to  crawl  up  that  ladder  and  be  himself 
that  fly  against  the  fleche.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
possibly  go  on  living  with  self-respect,  that  feat 
being  unaccomplished.  He  was  a  good  lad  and  an 
obedient  one  normally,  and  he  knew  that  his  father 
and  mother  would  forbid  such  an  attempt  with 
horror,  but  that  counted  for  nothing  against  the 
strength  of  his  desire.  It  was  a  possession,  an  ob 
session  ;  the  thought  drew  him  as  martyrdom  draws 
a  fanatic.  Three  days  he  watched  the  work,  stand 
ing  with  the  other  boys,  all  their  dark  little  heads 
bent  back  as  their  eyes  followed  the  invisible  brush 
which  was  noiselessly,  slowly  turning  the  dull  sur 
face  of  the  ball  into  a  golden  lamp  hung  on  the  blue 
sky.  The  boys  talked  among  themselves  about  it. 


WITHOUT    FEAR  2* 

"When  I  am  a  man  I  shall  do  such  work,"  Achille 
Dufour  announced  in  a  bold  voice.  "Probably  I 
shall  be  up  there  some  day  where  the  gilder  is  now, 
and  all  of  you  down  below  watching  me." 

And  the  others  jeered  frankly.  "You — you  who 
fall  over  a  fence — you  indeed!"  said  his  cousin 
Henri  scornfully.  "But  as  for  me,  I  would  not  be 
afraid  to  climb  up  there  to-day,"  and  at  that  there 
was  a  chorus  of  protest. 

"Who  was  it,  tell  me,  who  was  afraid  to  climb 
the  flagpole  by  the  church?  Who  was  that  boy, 
Henri  Dufour?"  demanded  Pierrot  Tremblay,  and 
the  embryo  Frenchmen  joined  in  a  sarcastic  "Ah !" 
and  pointed  grimy  fingers  at  the  mortified  Henri. 

"That's  nothing,"  Henri  threw  back  sulkily. 
"And  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  afraid.  I 
offered  to  climb  the  pole,  and  was  afraid  after — but 
none  of  the  others  even  offered.  And  it  was  no  great 
shame  to  me,  for  it  is  dangerous  to  climb  that  pole. 
It  is  twenty  feet  to  the  cross-bars,  and  beyond  that 
it  is  fifty  feet  yet  to  the  small  cross-bars  at  the  top 
— it  is  very  high  in  the  air — seventy  feet.  Only 
Francois  Beaupre  of  all  the  village  has  yet  climbed 
that  flagpole,  and  all  the  world  knows  that  Frangois 
is  different.  His  stomach  is  different ;  he  has  ne 
fear  of  things,  inside  him — FranQois." 


26  THE    MARSHAL 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent,  and  the  hero  put 
a  friendly  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  discredited 
Dufour. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  agreed.  "It's  only  that  I  am 
born  different.  I  do  not  feel  inside  my  stomach 
that  thing  which  you  say  is  being  afraid.  I  do  not 
know  that  feeling,  so  it  is  easy.  It  was  not  much 
for  me  to  climb  the  pole;  it  was  just  that  I  could 
do  it." 

And  the  boys,  seeing  their  honor  saved,  agreed 
heartily. 

"All  the  same,"  Achille  Dufour  suggested  un 
gratefully,  "Francois  would  not  dare  climb  that 
ladder  to  the  ball.  Dare  you?" 

The  great  brown  eyes  of  Frangois  turned  about 
the  group;  the  boys  waited  eagerly  for  his  answer. 
If  he  dared  it  was  almost  as  if  they  should  all  do  it; 
it  was  always  this  one  who  led  into  the  dangerous 
places ;  always  this  one  who  went  a  bit  further  when 
the  others'  courage  failed;  they  explained  it  pleas 
antly  by  that  fortunate  lack  in  Frangois'  inside 
mechanism  which  produced  in  the  others  the  dis 
comfort  called  fear,  hindering  bold  deeds. 

"He  has  no  judgment,  Frangois;  therefore  he 
fears  nothing,"  they  sometimes  put  the  case. 

But  the   fact  remained  that  he  was  afraid  of 


WITHOUT    FEAR  27 

nothing.  The  boys  waited  a  minute,  eyes  and 
mouths  stretched,  and  at  length  came  the  decision. 

"I  dare,"  said  Frangois.  Then  the  dark  heads 
came  together  in  an  uneasy  mass,  and  there  was 
whispering. 

At  the  dinner-hour  that  day  several  mothers  of 
the  village  remarked  that  their  small  lads  were  rest 
less,  not  intent  as  usual  on  the  black  bread  and  the 
soup  of  chopped  vegetables  and  the  green  beans — 
all  anxious  to  finish  and  get  away.  Only  the  mother 
of  Francois,  however,  reasoned  from  this  that  mis 
chief  was  brewing.  When  the  slim,  wiry,  little 
figure  slipped  from  the  table  and  out  through  the 
open  door,  she  rose  and  followed  and  stood  in  the 
great  entry  watching  him  race  across  the  field 
toward  the  church.  But  at  that  moment  the  baby 
cried  and  she  turned  back  into  the  house,  and  when 
she  looked  again  the  boy  had  disappeared.  Yet  it 
was  on  her  mind  that  something  would  happen,  and 
from  time  to  time  she  left  her  work  and  went  to  the 
doorway  and  shaded  her  eyes,  looking  for  her  little 
lad.  Meanwhile  Francois  had  veered  but  once  in 
his  straight  path — to  turn  to  the  Philpoteaux  cot 
tage,  where  the  gilder  lodged  while  in  Vieques. 

"How  soon  will  one  be  at  work  up  there  again?" 
he  asked  through  the  window  of  Auguste  Phil- 


28  THE    MARSHAL 

poteaux  sitting  at  his  dinner,  and  the  man  answered 
good-naturedly,  enjoying  the  publicity  which  made 
him  the  most  interesting  person  of  the  village. 

"It  may  be  in  half  an  hour,  my  boy.  Not  sooner." 
And  Frangois  raced  on. 

By  this  time  a  boy  here  and  a  boy  there  had  stolen 
from  their  dinner-tables  and  were  gathering  in 
groups  down  the  street,  but  the  elders  paid  no  atten 
tion.  Frangois  disappeared  into  the  church;  the 
boys  began  to  grow  breathless. 

"It  will  take  some  minutes  for  the  stairs,"  one 
said,  and  they  waited.  Two  minutes,  three,  perhaps 
five;  something  rose  out  of  the  trap-door  leading  to 
the  platform  from  which  the  steeple  sprang — a 
figure,  looking  very  small  so  far  up  above  them. 
Instantly  it  attached  itself,  like  a  crawling  fly,  to 
the  side  of  the  steeple;  it  moved  upward.  Henri 
Dufour,  below  in  the  street,  jumped  as  a  hand 
gripped  his  arm.  He  looked  up  frightened  at  La 
Claire. 

"Is  that  my  Francois?"  she  demanded  sternly, 
but  the  boy  did  not  need  to  answer. 

With  that,  by  degrees  people  came  from  the  cot 
tages  as  at  some  mysterious  warning  and  stood 
silent,  afraid  to  breathe,  watching  the  little  figure 
creeping  up,  up  the  dizzy  narrowing  peak  of  the 


WITHOUT    FEAR  29 

church  steeple.  A  rider  galloped  down  the  road; 
seeing  the  groups,  he  pulled  in  his  bay  horse  and  his 
eyes  followed  the  upward  glance  of  the  whole  vil 
lage.  In  spite  of  the  distance,  one  could  tell  that  it 
was  a  child's  not  a  man's  figure,  glued  against  the 
flechc,  almost,  now,  at  the  top. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  flung  at  the  nearest  knot  of  peas 
ants;  his  voice  was  abrupt  and  commanding. 

The  men  pulled  off  their  caps,  and  one  answered 
respectfully:  "It  is  little  Francois  Beaupre,  my 
Seigneur;  it  is  a  child  who  has  no  fear;  he  is  almost 
at  the  top,  but  we  dread  it  when  he  descends.  It  is 
dangerous  to  descend.  Yet  the  child  is  not  afraid — 
we  hope  he  will  come  down,  and  in  that  case  his 
mother  should  most  certainly  give  him  the  stick." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  the  man  on  horseback  growled.  "If 
he  looks  down  he  is  lost ;  the  lad  is  a  born  hero  or  a 
born  lunatic." 

The  crawling  spot  up  there  showed  dark  in  the 
sunlight  against  the  new  gilding  of  the  ball.  It 
stopped ;  the  blot  was  fixed  for  a  second ;  another 
second.  From  the  crowd  rose  gasps,  and  excited 
broken  sentences. 

"He  has  the  vertigo !    He  is  lost !" 

A  man  spoke  that  plainly,  and  Henri  Dufour  felt 
Claire's  fingers  on  his  arm  loosen  as  if  life  had  gone 


30  THE    MARSHAL 

out  of  them.  A  strange  sound  came  from  her  lips, 
but  the  boy  did  not  stir  his  eyes  from  the  church 
steeple.  In  the  stillness  he  heard  a  woman  yards 
away  whisper  as  if  to  herself: 

"He  will  fall  now — at  this  moment." 

And  the  dark  blot  clung  against  the  gilding. 
Then  suddenly  it  moved,  began  to  make  a  slow  way 
downward,  and  a  long  sigh,  like  a  ripple  on  water, 
ran  through  the  ranks  of  people.  No  one  spoke; 
all  the  eyes  watched  the  little  figure  slip  down,  down 
the  unseen  ladder  in  the  air.  At  last  it  was  at  the 
bottom;  it  disappeared  into  the  trap-door.  Every 
one  began  to  talk  volubly  at  once;  a  woman  cried 
for  joy,  then  a  child  spoke  in  a  high  voice. 

"See,"  she  said  shrilly,  "the  mother  of  Frangois 
goes  to  meet  him!" 

La  Claire  was  far  down  the  street,  gliding  toward 
that  church  door  which  was  under  the  steeple.  As 
she  reached  it  the  little  lad  came  out,  his  face 
flushed,  his  eyes  shining  with  excitement  and  tri 
umph.  She  took  his  hand  silently,  hardly  looking  at 
him,  and  turned  so,  quietly,  without  a  word  of 
either  joy  or  reproof,  her  face  impassive.  She  had 
got  her  boy  again  from  the  dead,  it  seemed  to 
Claire,  and  those  first  moments  were  beyond  words 
or  embraces.  To  touch  his  warm  hand  was  enough. 


WITHOUT    FEAR  31 

The  man  on  the  bay  horse,  trotting  slowly  along, 
saw  the  meeting. 

"It  is  a  woman  out  of  the  common,  that  one,"  he 
spoke  aloud.  "She  rules  herself  and  the  boy."  And 
the  boy  looked  up  as  he  came  and  smiled  and  tugged 
at  his  cap  with  the  hand  which  his  mother  did  not 
hold. 

"Good  morning,  M'sieur,"  he  said  with  friendli 
ness,  and  the  rider  stared. 

"Sacre  bleu!"  he  flung  back  in  his  strong  sudden 
voice.  "It  is  my  friend,  the  Marshal.  Was  it  you, 
then,  glued  up  there?  Yet  another  fashion  to  play 
with  death,  eh?  Nom  d'un  chien!  You  have  a  star 
of  good  luck — you  are  saved  for  something  great, 
it  must  be.  Madame,"  he  spoke  to  the  mother,  "you 
should  guard  this  adventurer.  He  tells  me  that  his 
life  is  of  importance  to  his  country,  yet  he  risks  it 
with  damnable  freedom.  I  caught  him  kicking  over 
a  precipice,  and  here  he  is  running  his  neck  into 
danger  again.  France  will  lack  a  marshal  and  you 
to  blame — yet  he  is  hard  to  kill,  I  confess  it." 

"He  is  hard  to  guard,  my  Seigneur,"  La  Claire 
answered  seriously.  "I  never  know  the  next  dan 
ger.  He  is  more  obedient  than  the  others,  yet  it  is 
he  who  will  make  my  hair  gray.  But  he  is  good, 
my  Francois,"  and  her  arm  slipped  around  the  boy. 


32  THE    MARSHAL 

She  drew  him  close,  as  if  only  now  realizing  how 
nearly  she  had  lost  him.  "I  believe  it  is  simply 
that  fear  is  left  out  of  him,  as  they  say  in  the  vil 
lage.  He  does  not  know  how  to  be  afraid,  le  petit," 

The  stranger  turned  a  glance  like  a  blow  on  the 
little  fellow.  "Francois,"  he  demanded,  "what 
made  you  still  so  long  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  just 
now?  Were  you  afraid?" 

"No,  M'sieur,"  the  child  answered.  "I  was  not 
afraid.  I  was  looking  at  the  chateau — the  new 
chateau.  There  is  some  one  living  in  it  now, 
M'sieur.  I  thought  as  I  looked  that  when  I  grew 
big  and  an  officer,  I  might  go  there  and  place  my 
soldiers  about  that  chateau.  I  arranged  how  to 
attack  it  very  well.  I  also  arranged  how  to  defend 
it.  There  should  be  infantry  to  take  the  little  gates 
while  the  cavalry  kept  the  defenders  busy  at  the 
great  gate." 

The  bay  horse,  restive,  whirled  and  plunged  side- 
wise;  the  rider  sat  close  yet  loose  as  he  played  the 
reins,  and  in  a  moment  had  the  beast  facing  again 
toward  the  boy  and  the  woman.  His  brows  down, 
he  stared  at  the  lad  with  his  keen  hard  glance,  but 
he  spoke  to  the  mother. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  soldier  you  have 
there.  I  have  not  heard  of  another  boy  who  lingers 


WITHOUT    FEAR  33 

at  the  top  of  church  steeples  to  plan  military  opera 
tions.  He  has  a  love  for  the  business — if  he  have 
the  genius  also  he  may  go  far.  He  should  be  in 
structed."  The  two  waited,  attentive,  a  little  aston 
ished  to  be  noticed  so  long,  and  then  the  heavy  brows 
lifted  and  a  smile  came  into  the  stern  eyes,  making 
them  astonishingly  kind.  "It  is  my  poor  house 
which  you  have  honored  with  your  reflections, 
M'sieur  the  Marshal,"  he  flung  at  Frangois.  "Come 
and  see  me  there  in  the  chateau,  and  I  will  help  you 
arrange  the  attack  against  it.  Good  day." 

There  was  a  clatter  of  galloping  hoofs;  the  bay 
mare  and  her  rider  were  far  down  the  street. 

"Who  is  it,  my  mother — the  fierce  gentleman?" 
Frangois  asked. 

"You  are  fortunate  to-day,  Francois,"  Claire  an 
swered  him.  "The  good  God  has  saved  your  life 
from  a  very  great  foolishness,  and  also  I  think  you 
have  made  a  friend.  It  is  the  new  seigneur." 


CHAPTER  IV 

COMING   TO   HIS   OWN 

POSSIBLY  the  greatest  human  quality  is  crea- 
tiveness.  It  is  an  echo  of  the  most  character 
istic  divine  quality.  Napoleon  I.  was  essentially  a 
creator.  He  breathed  into  France  the  breath  of  a 
life  not  before  there;  he  took  disorganized  masses 
and  made  of  them  invincible  armies.  He  clipped 
territories  from  countries  and  made  of  them  king 
doms;  beyond  all,  he  made  men.  A  hero  is  often 
crisis-born;  Napoleon  made  the  crises  and  shaped 
heroes  to  fit  them.  Again  and  again  he  drew  out 
from  the  mass  of  common  clay  a  lump  in  which  his 
master  glance  saw  the  leaven  of  possibility;  he 
breathed  his  own  conquering,  limitless  spirit  into  it, 
and  in  a  turn  the  automaton!  was  a  great  general, 
ready  to  do  his  work,  bound  to  him  for  life  by  a 
chain  of  devotion  unbreakable,  unreasoning,  self- 
sufficient,  a  mystery  of  that  astounding  personality. 
He  made  great  men  and  then  in  his  lordly  way  he 
set  them  in  frames  which  suited  his  fastidious  sense 

34 


COMING    TO    HIS    OWN  35 

of  fitness.  Out  of  old  France's  domains  he  helped 
himself  to  lands  and  castles  and  gave  them  with  a 
free  hand  to  his  marshals  and  his  generals. 

Six  years  ago,  before  Waterloo,  he  had  given  the 
new  chateau  of  Vieques  and  its  lands  to  General  the 
Baron  Gaspard  Gourgaud,  whom  he  had  before 
then  fashioned  into  a  very  good  pattern  of  a  soldier 
out  of  material  left  over  from  the  old  aristocracy. 
Vieques  was  a  village  when  "all  Gaul  was  divided 
into  three  provinces"  of  Rome;  a  village  much  the 
same  in  1820.  It  lay  in  the  Valley  Delesmontes — 
"of  the  mountains" — a  league  from  the  little  city 
Delesmontes,  whose  six  thousand  inhabitants  consti 
tuted  it  the  chief  city  of  this  valley  of  the  Jura. 
Over  Vieques  hung  the  mountain  called  Le  Rose, 
behind  Le  Rose  loomed  that  greater  mountain 
called  Le  Raimeu;  back  of  Le  Raimeu  rolled  the 
Jura  range.  The  ancient  road  of  the  days  of  Julius 
Caesar  ran  through  Vieques,  runs  now,  the  main 
road  straight  to  Rome.  It  is  kept  up  at  present  by 
the  government  and  one  may  see  a  man  working 
on  it  any  day.  A  little  river  cuts  across  the  hamlet 
— the  Cheulte;  over  it  arches,  steep,  like  a  crooked 
finger,  unbelievably  steep,  the  Roman  bridge  built 
in  those  same  times  before  France  was,  and  used 
now  every  hour  of  every  day.  Solid  and  age-defy- 


36  THE    MARSHAL 

ing  and  dignified,  it  goes  about  its  business  of  hold 
ing  the  land  together  from  one  day  to  another  as 
it  has  done  for  two  thousand  years,  as  it  may  do,  to 
all  appearances,  for  two  thousand  more.  The  old 
road  passes  over  the  old  bridge  high  into  air  and 
makes  an  "elbow"  as  the  villagers  put  it,  at  its  foot, 
swinging  down  stream  at  a  right  angle;  a  team  of 
horses  rattling  down  the  slope  gathers  such  an  im 
petus  that  often  they  bump  into  the  barn  of  Pierre 
Beaurame,  built  stolidly  at  the  turn  of  the  elbow, 
before  their  driver  can  stop  them.  One  wonders 
why  the  grandfather  of  the  grandfather  of  Pierre 
built  his  barn  at  this  place,  but  there  it  stands,  and 
the  horses  must  accustom  themselves. 

It  is  a  quaint  old  village  sitting  under  its  moun 
tains,  gay  with  its  gardens  and  poppy  fields,  strung 
on  its  little  river  and  its  old,  old  highway,  tied  to 
gether  with  its  steep-arched  bridge.  The  general 
looked  about  him  with  approval  when  he  rode  down 
of  a  morning  from  the  "new"  chateau  on  the  hill. 
The  new  chateau,  the  castle,  is  a  thousand  years  old, 
built  before  the  Crusades,  in  the  time  of  Charle 
magne,  but  yet  habitable.  It  stands  not  distant  from 
and  on  the  same  spur  of  Le  Rose  as  the  old  Roman 
chateau,  that  pile  of  tumbled  ruins  which  Frangois 
loved.  The  castle  is  a  massive  square  of  gray  stone 


COMING   TO    HIS    OWN  37 

with  a  pointed  roof  of  red  tile;  four  towers  flank 
it,  two  battlemented,  two  with  spires  red  tiled.  Win 
dows  narrow  and  high  and  round,  meurtricres  in 
the  towers,  prick  the  stretch  of  masonry;  the  front 
fagade  is  battlemented;  a  hedge  of  thorns  fifteen 
feet  high  reaches  a  delicate  green  arm  about  its 
strength;  half  a  mile  back,  a  stone  wall,  battle 
mented,  too,  defends  the  place  from  attack  on  the 
mountain  side;  the  mountain  rises  sharply  eight 
hundred  feet  high  behind.  A  park  of  beech  trees 
stands  stately  about  the  castle;  above  it  one  sees  only 
the  red  roofs,  and  the  towers,  and  glimpses  of  gray 
stone.  It  was  like  this  in  the  year  1200;  it  is  like 
this  to-day. 

The  Baron-General  Gourgaud,  taking  possession 
in  this  month  of  July,  thought  it  lucky  he  had  not 
seen  this  domain  of  his  before,  else  the  vision  would 
have  turned  his  heart  from  his  duty.  After  a  full 
career  almost  in  boyhood — for  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  had  come  to  him  at  twenty-four 
• — after  service  in  the  Spanish  and  Austrian  cam 
paigns  and  diplomatic  missions;  after  saving  the 
Emperor's  life  at  Moscow;  after  Waterloo,  Napo 
leon  had  chosen  him  as  one  of  three  officers  to  go 
with  him  to  St.  Helena.  The  chateau  and  estate  of 
Vieques  had  been  given  to  him  by  the  Emperor 


3^  THE   MARSHAL 

after  that  brave  and  lucky  moment  at  Moscow 
when,  the  first  man  to  enter  the  Kremlin,  he  had 
snatched  the  match  from  a  mass  of  gunpowder 
which  would  a  moment  later  have  blown  up  both 
officers  and  Emperor.  But,  what  with  battles  and 
diplomacy,  what  with  the  years  at  St.  Helena  and 
the  years  in  England  after,  he  had  not  till  this  sum 
mer  of  1820  seen  his  property.  Now,  at  once  his 
heart  went  out  to  it,  and  he  loved  it  as  naturally, 
as  whole-heartedly  as  if  it  had  come  to  him  through 
a  line  of  ancestors.  The  splendid,  gray,  old  pile, 
the  wide  green  fields,  the  little  village  nestling  to 
its  castle — all  this  seemed  to  the  soldier  of  fortune 
not  a  strange  new  luxury  but  like  coming  to  his 
own. 

Ten  years  before  he  had  married;  four  years 
after  that  his  wife  had  died,  and  the  daughter  she 
left  was  now  a  girl  of  seven,  a  fairy  type  of  girl, 
airily  and  daintily  made,  quick- footed  and  quick 
witted;  unexpected,  too,  like  a  fairy,  and  with  a 
brave  and  obstinate  spirit  which  gratified  her  soldier 
father  every  day. 

"You  are  perfect  in  every  way  but  one,  Alixe," 
he  said,  as  he  swung  her  high  to  kiss  her.  "You 
are—" 

"I  know,"  the  little  girl  interrupted,  comrade-like. 


COMING    TO    HIS    OWN  39 

"I  know  the  fault  I  have.  I  am  not  a  boy.  But  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  a  boy,  father.  I  would  then  grow 
to  be  a  great  fierce  person  with  a  mustache — like 
you.  Imagine  me,  father,  with  a  mustache,"  and 
the  two  laughed  together.  "Men  are  more  like  the 
brutes,  like  the  horses  or  tigers  or  lions — like  you, 
father.  It  is  only  women  who  are  really  people — 
du  monde" 

"Indeed!"  General  Gourgaud  received  the  state 
ment  with  his  heavy  brows  in  a  tremendous  frown, 
and  his  eyes  gleaming  with  pride  in  the  defiance. 
"Is  it  so,  my  daughter?  I  am  lucky  to  have  some 
one  who  is  really  a  person  to  save  me  from  being 
a  brute  altogether.  But  all  the  same,  you  grand 
lady  and  person,  you  can  not  hand  down  the  name 
of  Gourgaud.  You  will  fly  off  some  day  to  a  brute 
with  a  mustache,  and  leave  your  father  alone  in  this 
big  chateau,  is  it  not?"  He  knew  her  answer,  but 
he  liked  to  hear  it. 

"I  shall  never  marry  anybody,"  Alixe  announced. 
"I  can  not  ever  love  any  one  like  my  father." 

In  spite  of  the  satisfaction  which  this  speech  gave 
him,  it  was  a  sadness  to  the  baron  that  no  grand 
child  of  his  name  would  live  in  this  chateau  which 
he  had  so  soon  loved  so  much.  He  thought  of  it 
many  times,  and  the  more  keenly  he  felt  the  joy  of 


40  THE    MARSHAL 

his  life  the  more  keenly  he  felt  this  missing  thread 
in  its  pattern.  Yet  it  seemed  a  disloyalty  to  Alixe 
when  the  memory  of  the  little  peasant  boy  with  the 
large  dark  eyes  came  to  him  as  he  told  stories  to 
his  daughter  in  the  twilight.  The  story  of  the  bat 
tle  of  Ratisbon  it  was  to-night,  and  how  he  had  gone 
down  into  that  "glorious  ditch"  and  swarmed  up 
the  ladder  with  the  French  troops  under  fire. 

Alixe's  blue  eyes  flashed  and  her  hands  clutched 
his  coat  lapels — she  loved  the  tale.  Yet  into  the 
mind  of  Gaspard  Gourgaud  shot  the  idea  that  if 
he  were  telling  it  to  a  boy  of  his,  he  might  dream 
how  that  boy  would  march  away  some  day  and  do 
such  a  deed  with  a  memory  of  his  father  in  his 
soul.  Yet  no  boy  could  ever  have  been  as  dear  to 
him  as  this  girl,  gentle  and  spirited,  elusive,  caress 
ing,  sweetest  always  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  V 

HIS    STAR 

"THVATHER,  father!"    Alixe  dashed  into  the  li- 
.   brary  the  morning  after  the  tale  of  Ratisbon. 

"I  told  you,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  was  not  to  be 
troubled.  I  am  writing  my  book,"  the  general  thun 
dered  at  the  little  figure. 

Alixe  was  not  impressed.  "Do  not  drop  your 
eyebrows  in  that  way ;"  she  put  a  forefinger  on  each 
bushy  line.  "It  makes  you  so  ugly,  father." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her.  "What  is  it  you 
wish?  Be  quick." 

"Oh !"  Alixe  danced  in  excitement  again.  "There 
is  a  queer,  little,  village  boy — but  a  good  boy,  father. 
He  has  brought  you  a  bunch  of  lettuce — such  white 
fat  lettuce!  Will  you  see  him?  May  I  bring  him 
here?  He  is  a  very  good  boy." 

"Alixe,  you  are  unpayable,"  the  general  groaned. 
"I  am  your  plaything!  Yes,  bring  the  good  little 
boy — send  for  all  the  village — have  in  the  servants 
— that  will  help  me  with  my  writing." 

41 


42  THE    MARSHAL 

Alixe,  ignoring  sarcasm,  had  flown.  In  a  minute 
she  was  back  and  led  by  the  hand  Francois. 

"Ah!"  the  general  greeted  him  sternly.  "My 
friend,  the  Marshal!  You  have  already  begun  the 
attack  on  my  chateau,  it  seems  ?" 

"No,  my  Seigneur,"  the  boy  answered  gravely. 
"Not  yet.  I  bring  you  some  salade  as  a  present.  It  is 
from  my  mother's  garden.  I  chose  the  best." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  the  general  with  seriousness. 
"I  am  not  sure  if  your  mother  will  thank  you  equally. 
It  is  a  good  present." 

Francois  was  gratified.  La  Claire  had  this  morn 
ing  sent  him  to  the  gardens  with  a  wide  margin  of 
time,  and  the  inspiration  had  come  as  he  looked 
down  the  gleaming  row  of  white  lettuce  that  he 
would  take  a  tribute  and  make  the  visit  which  the 
seigneur  had  asked  him  to  make.  The  seigneur 
would  be  glad  of  the  lettuce,  for  had  not  his  father 
said  yesterday  that  it  was  the  best  ever  grown,  that 
he  would  wager  there  was  none  such  in  the  village, 
no,  not  even  in  the  garden  of  the  chateau.  He  filled 
his  mother's  basket  so  full  that  he  staggered,  and 
climbed  the  slope  and  made  his  way  past  the  ruins 
to  the  left  around  the  lift  of  Le  Rose,  across  the 
Pre  du  Sac,  on  to  the  new  chateau  to  the  great 
paved  courtyard  one  hundred  feet  square,  past  the 


HIS    STAR  43 

stables  at  the  left  and  on  to  the  door.  There  a  big 
man,  dressed  beautifully  in  violet,  had  refused  to 
let  him  in,  had  even  refused  to  take  his  lettuce  to 
the  seigneur,  and  the  boy  was  about  to  go  off  grieved 
when  a  wonderful  little  girl,  also  in  beautiful  clothes, 
but  less  lovely  than  the  violet  ones,  had  appeared. 
Like  a  fairy  she  looked,  he  thought,  and  like  a  fairy 
she  had  changed  everything,  and  now  here  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  the  seigneur,  accepting  thanks, 
looking  about  as  much  as  he  might  and  yet  be  po 
lite,  at  the  unknown  splendors  of  a  room  in  the 
chateau  itself. 

General  Gourgaud  brought  down  his  fist  on  a 
table  so  that  it  rattled  and  Frangois  started — but  not 
Alixe. 

"Sabre  de  bois!"  he  threw  at  the  two  children. 
"You  have  ruined  my  morning  between  you.  I 
meant  to  finish  those  cursed  chapters  this  morning. 
But  let  them  wait.  Having  the  honor  to  receive  a 
visit  from  an  officer  of  high  rank,  the  least  I  can 
do  is  to  entertain  him.  What  amusement  do  you  pre 
fer,  M'sieur  the  Marshal?  I  am  at  your  service." 

It  was  natural  to  Francois  to  believe  every  one 
kindly;  he  accepted  with  simplicity,  if  with  slight 
surprise,  the  general's  speech. 

"Does  the  seigneur  mean  it  ?"  he  asked. 


44  THE    MARSHAL 

"But  yes,"  the  general  shot  at  him. 

"If  the  seigneur  means  it,"  Frangois  went  on 
promptly,  "I  know  what  I  wish." 

"Parbleu!  you  do?"  General  Gourgaud  was  sur 
prised  in  turn  at  this  readiness.  "What  then?" 

"The  seigneur  has  fought  battles  under  the  great 
Emperor  himself?"  the  boy  asked  in  an  awed  tone. 

"Yes,"  came  the  abrupt  answer  again. 

"Think!"  whispered  the  French  boy.  "To  have 
fought  under  the  Emperor!"  And  the  old  soldier's 
heart  thrilled  suddenly.  The  child  went  on.  "If  the 
seigneur  would  tell  me  a  story  of  one  fight — of  just 
one!" 

"Ratisbon,  Ratisbon!"  clamored  Alixe,  and  she 
scrambled  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  to  her  father's 
knee  and  her  hand  went  around  his  neck.  "Tell 
about  Ratisbon  and  the  ditch  and  the  ladders,  fa 
ther.  It's  true,"  she  nodded  at  Frangois  encourag 
ingly.  "It's  really  true;  he  was  right  there."  And 
she  went  on,  addressing  the  general.  "And  when 
that  is  done,  tell  about  Austerlitz  and  the  soldiers 
drowning  under  the  ice.  And  when  that  is  done  tell 
about  Wagram  and — " 

"Halt !"  ordered  the  general.  "I  have  not  a  week 
to  talk.  But  I  will  tell  about  Ratisbon  if  you  wish." 
He  settled  himself  into  his  deep  chair  and  drew  the 


HIS    STAR  45 

little  girl  closer;  a  dark  curl  caught  on  the  rough 
cloth  of  his  coat  and  lay  across  his  square  shoulder; 
she  held  his  thumb  tightly  with  one  hand.  The  boy 
stood  erect  in  front  of  them,  his  knitted  peasant  cap 
in  his  hand,  his  luminous  eyes  not  stirring  from  the 
general's  face ;  outside  the  hot  stillness  lay  over  the 
park  and  over  the  wide  fields — where  thousands  of 
poppies  stretched  scarlet  heads  higher  than  the 
wheat;  one  heard  the  trampling  of  horses  in  the 
paved  courtyard  of  the  castle  where  the  red-roofed 
stables  stood,  the  distant  voices  of  grooms;  in  the 
dim  room  there  was  no  sound. 

"One  lived  in  those  days,  my  children,"  the  ab 
rupt  strong  voice  broke  the  quiet.  "War  is  terri 
ble,  but  after  all  one  lives — if  one  is  not  killed  at 
once.  It  happened  so  to  many  that  day  of  Ratis- 
bon ;  many  were  killed  that  day."  The  deep  voice 
stopped,  then  went  on  again.  "The  Austrians  held 
Ratisbon  and  the  bridge  across  the  Danube  River. 
The  Emperor  wished  to  take  the  town  and  that 
bridge.  Marshal  Lannes  was  ordered  to  do  it.  You 
see,  my  children,  the  walls  were  very  old  but  filled 
with  Austrian  artillery,  and  there  was  infantry  on 
the  parapets.  An  old  ditch  lay  under  the  walls,  a 
large  ditch,  dry,  but  twenty  feet  high  and  fifty  feet 
wide.  All  the  bottom  of  it  was  a  vegetable  garden. 


46  THE    MARSHAL 

To  take  that  town  it  was  necessary  to  go  down  into 
that  ditch  and  climb  up  again  to  the  walls,  and  all 
the  time  one  would  be  under  fire  from  the  Austrians 
on  the  walls — do  you  understand  that,  children? 
Very  well.  Twice  the  marshal  asked  for  fifty  volun 
teers  to  take  the  ladders  and  place  them  in  the  ditch. 
Twice  one  hundred  men  sprang  forward,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  choose  the  fifty.  Twice  they  dashed 
out,  carrying  the  ladders,  from  behind  the  great 
stone  barn  which  had  covered  them,  and  each  time 
the  detail  was  wiped  out — fifty  men  wiped  out.  It 
was  like  that,  my  children,  the  fight  at  Ratisbon." 
The  brown  curl  lay  unstirred  against  the  dark  coat ; 
the  shining  eyes  of  the  boy  held,  as  if  fastened  there, 
to  the  face  of  the  story-teller.  Into  the  silence  came 
a  choking  sigh. 

"The  Emperor!"  Franqois  breathed — "the  Em 
peror  was  there!" 

Probably  nothing,  which  had  not  to  do  with  his 
daughter,  could  have  touched  General  Gourgaud  as 
did  that  tribute.  That  it  was  a  tribute  to  his  story 
meant  much,  but  the  worship  of  Napoleon  which 
burst  out  in  the  gasp  went  deeper.  The  followers 
of  the  Corsican  never  asked  for  a  reason  why  they 
adored  him;  it  was  a  feeling  blinder  and  stronger 
than  love  which  he  inspired,  and  it  lasted  in  the 


HIS    STAR  47 

hearts  of  his  soldiers  to  the  latest  moment  of  the 
longest  life.  The  veteran  officer  who  felt  this  pos 
session  of  his  own  being  saw  it  mirrored  in  the  slim 
lad  who  quivered  before  him,  and  he  loved  the  lad 
for  it. 

"Sapristi!"  he  growled.  "The  arm  of  the  Little 
Corporal  reaches  a  long  way.  The  child  has  not 
even  seen  him,  and  voila,  he  loves  him." 

The  child's  face  flushed.  "But  yes,  my  Seigneur," 
Francois  spoke  quickly.  "But  yes.  I  have  seen  the 
Emperor." 

"You  have  seen  Napoleon?"  The  general  was 
surprised.  "How  is  that?" 

In  a  boyish  fashion,  in  homely  language  of  his 
class,  yet  with  that  dramatic  instinct  which  is  char 
acteristically  French,  Francois  told  his  tale  as  his 
grandmother  had  told  it  to  him  and  to  his  brothers 
and  sisters — the  tale  which  the  children  called  "Na 
poleon  Comes".  The  general  listened  with  a  sincere 
interest.  As  simple  in  many  ways  as  the  child, 
every  least  word  of  his  demigod  Napoleon  was 
charged  for  him  with  authority.  He  considered 
deeply  when  the  story  was  finished. 

"My  boy,"  he  addressed  the  lad,  "I  do  not  know 
the  law — I  am  a  soldier.  Yet  by  my  idea  you  are 
Chevalier,  created  so  by  the  act  of  the  most  power- 


ful  monarch  who  ever  ruled  France — by  our  Em 
peror  Napoleon.  Another  monarch  sits  now  on  his 
throne,  yet  he  was  in  truth  France's  ruler  when  he 
gave  that  blow  on  the  shoulder  which  made  you  a 
knight;  he  had  the  right  of  an  emperor — therefore 
you  are  that  which  he  made  you — the  Chevalier 
Francois  Beaupre.  As  for  the  rest" — his  brows 
drew  into  a  bushy  line  and  his  eyes  gleamed  like 
swords — "do  not  forget  that  he  himself  charged 
you  with  a  duty  to  his  house;  your  fate  and  his 
name  are  linked.  The  time  may  come  when,  as  the 
Emperor  said,  you  may  be  a  Marshal  of  France  un 
der  another  Bonaparte.  But  that  is  a  small  thing 
if  the  time  comes  when  you  may  help  another  Bona 
parte  to  come  to  his  right,  to  rule  over  France.  It 
is  that  of  which  you  must  think  till  the  hour  strikes, 
and  then  it  is  that  which  you  must  give  your  life 
for." 

Little  Francois,  the  visionary,  the  hero  wor 
shiper,  trembled.  He  had  no  words  to  answer  the 
orders  leveled  at  him  in  those  rolling  tones.  "I 
will  do  it,  my  Seigneur,"  he  said,  frightened  yet  in 
spired,  lifted  into  a  tremendous  dizzying  atmos 
phere.  And  with  that  a  secret  which  he  had  told  no 
one,  not  even  his  mother,  broke  forth.  "My  Seig 
neur,  a  strange  thing  happens  sometimes — I  have 


HIS    STAR  49 

dreams — yet  they  are  not  dreams — in  broad  day 
light.  I  see  things — I  hear  voices — which  are  not  of 
our  village.  Three  times  I  saw  a  long  road  up  a 
mountain,  and  over  the  mountain  was  a  large  star. 
I  saw  it  three  times,  and  once  a  voice  said  'It  is  the 
star  of  the  Bonapartes,  but  also  your  star,  Francois. 
Follow  it.'  " 

The  general  was  a  hard-headed  person  for  all  his 
cult  of  Napoleon,  and  vision-seeing  appeared  to  him 
nonsense.  He  pooh-poohed  at  once  the  idea  of  a  star 
divided  between  the  house  of  Bonaparte  and  a  small 
peasant.  "Your  mother  had  better  put  a  wet  cloth 
in  your  cap,"  he  advised.  "Parbleu — seeing  stars  in 
midday !  Some  one-legged  old  fighter  has  been  gab 
bling  before  you  about  the  star  of  the  Bonapartes, 
and  that  and  a  touch  of  sunstroke  in  this  heat,  it 
may  be,  have  turned  you  silly.  Let  me  hear  no  more 
of  stars,  but  keep  at  your  lesson  and  learn  to  be — " 

With  that  he  was  aware  that  the  boy  did  not  hear 
him.  The  light  figure  was  on  tiptoes — the  large  eyes 
stared  at  the  wall,  and  the  child  spoke  in  an  unin- 
flected  voice  as  if  something  muffled  spoke  through 
him. 

"I  see  the  star,"  he  said.  "I  see  it  through  a  win 
dow  where  there  are  iron  bars  .  .  .  Ah!"  The  in 
terjection  was  in  the  boy's  natural  accent,  and  he 


SO  THE    MARSHAL 

shivered  violently.  "Ugh!"  His  teeth  chattered  and 
he  looked  about  vaguely.  "It  is  like  an  ice-house.  I 
do  not  like  those  dreams;  they  make  me  so  cold. 
Seigneur,  it  is  late;  my  mother  will  not  be  pleased. 
And  I  must  stop  at  the  garden  and  pick  the  vege 
tables  for  supper — carrots  and  peas.  I  must  hurry 
to  get  the  peas  and  carrots." 

Little  Alixe,  clutching  her  father's  thumb, 
watched  as  the  boy  disappeared.  Then,  to  the  gen 
eral's  astonishment,  she  began  to  sob.  "I — I  don't 
know,"  she  answered  his  quick  question.  "But  I — I 
think  it  is  because  I  am  sorry  the  little  boy  was  so 
cold." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    GAME    OF    CARDS 

HIDDEN  in  the  mechanism  of  character  are 
springs  unsuspected  by  one's  nearest,  un 
known  to  one's  self,  which  the  habits  of  every  day 
keep  polished  and  oiled,  ready  for  action.  Many 
times  the  psychological  moment  for  their  use  does 
not  arrive,  and  a  life  ends  with  no  outside  history 
but  commonplace;  sometimes  in  the  midst  of  com 
monplace  the  touch  falls  on  the  electric  button,  the 
coiled  wire  is  sprung,  and  an  ordinary  career  rises 
unexpectedly  to  heroism,  or  falls  as  unexpectedly 
by  temptation.  It  is  the  habit  of  years  which  has 
prepared  the  one  crisis  or  the  other. 

Franqois  Beaupre — Le  Francois  of  Vieques — so 
ber,  laborious,  had  in  him  a  certain  pig-headedness, 
and  also  a  vein  of  the  gambler  which  had  swollen 
with  use;  yet  because  it  had  so  far  brought  him  only 
good  luck  the  neighbors  called  this  good  judgment. 
He  was  a  dealer  in  working  oxen;  he  bought  and 
raised  and  sold  them,  and  only  his  wife  knew  what 

51 


52  THE    MARSHAL 

chances  he  often  took  in  buying  young  beeves.  It 
was  a  simple  solid  form  of  speculation,  yet  it  was 
that.  It  had  given  him  the  custom  of  taking  chances 
and  of  confidence  in  his  "luck", — all  of  which  is 
perhaps  no  bad  thing,  yet  it  prepared  a  bad  thing 
for  Fran9ois  Beaupre.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  been 
fortunate  to  a  miracle  and  his  bargains  were  so 
lucky  that  he  stood  highest  among  his  neighbors 
for  keenness  and  for  caution.  His  house  was  the 
largest,  his  table  the  most  generous,  his  wife  the 
best-dressed  of  the  village;  he  planned  to  give  his 
children,  particularly  young  Francois,  who  was 
more  than  a  common  student,  opportunities.  Fran- 
^ois  should  go  to  the  college  at  Delesmontes.  No 
other  man  in  the  place  was  so  comfortable,  and  be 
cause  of  his  genial  and  simple  soul  he  was  not  en 
vied.  Le  Francois  was  a  popular  person,  and  it  was 
a  pride  to  the  village  that  his  name  and  his  prosper 
ity  were  known  about  the  countryside. 

On  a  day  in  September  he  left  Vieques  early  in 
the  morning  to  drive  to  the  market  in  Delesmontes, 
a  league  distant,  two  pairs  of  oxen  which  he  had 
bought  as  calves  for  almost  nothing  from  poor  stock 
out  of  a  farm  leagues  away.  He  had  fed  and  trained 
and  cared  for  them  till  now  they  were  well  set-up 
and  powerful  and  smooth-working — ready  to  sell 


A    GAME    OF    CARDS  53 

for  a  good  price.  Francois  kissed  his  wife  and  the 
baby,  and  called  good-by  to  the  children  playing  in 
the  garden,  and  left  the  little  place  so  full  of  hope 
ful  life,  with  contentment  in  his  heart.  He  planned, 
as  he  swung  along  the  road  whistling,  what  he 
would  do  with  the  money  which  he  would  bring 
back — eight  hundred  francs,  he  believed  it  would 
be.  Not  a  clearer  head  or  lighter  heart  passed  that 
day  along  the  Roman  road  to  Delesmontes.  At  the 
market  he  found  that  there  were  few  oxen  to  be  dis 
posed  of,  none  which  compared  to  his,  and  his 
ideas  of  value  went  up — he  would  get  nine  hun 
dred  francs  for  them,  which  delayed  the  sale. 
Eight  hundred  he  might  have  had  easily,  but  the 
other  was  a  large  price,  even  for  the  best  How 
ever,  Frangois  was  cheerful  and  obstinate  and  con 
fident,  and  such  qualities  accomplish  things — he  got 
his  price. 

But  it  came  to  be,  by  the  time  his  bargain  was 
closed,  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  had 
had  no  dinner.  With  the  cattle  off  his  hands  and 
the  money  in  his  pocket  he  felt  a  sense  of  leisure 
and  of  wealth.  Hungry  as  a  wolf  he  felt  also,  and 
he  turned  into  the  inn  of  Delesmontes,  where  the 
sign  of  a  huge  bear,  cut  out  of  tin  and  painted 
black,  swung  before  the  door. 


54  THE    MARSHAL 

It  was  pleasant  inside  in  the  great  clean  hall  of 
the  inn,  twenty  feet  wide  by  forty  long.  Bars  of 
yellow  afternoon  sunlight  patterned  the  white 
scrubbed  floor;  at  the  tables  of  black  oak  a  number 
of  men  sat  on  benches,  bottles  and  glasses  before 
them,  and  pulled  at  their  pipes,  and  the  clouds  of 
smoke  rose  to  the  dark  wood  ceiling,  bluish  already 
with  much  smoking;  against  the  whitewashed  walls 
hung  engravings  of  battles  framed  in  red  cherry- 
wood.  Doors  and  windows  were  open,  and  through 
them  one  saw  harvest  fields  lying  gold  in  sunlight. 
As  Frangois  sat  down  he  faced  a  window  through 
which,  down  the  slow  slope  from  Delesmontes 
perching  on  the  mountain,  beyond  a  stretch  of  tran 
quil  country,  lifted,  three  miles  away,  a  bunch  of 
roofs,  red-tiled  and  brown-shingled,  and  the  red 
spire  of  a  church  with  a  newly-gilded  ball — his  vil 
lage  of  Vieques.  He  sighed  hungrily  and  happily. 
In  half  an  hour,  after  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  little 
bread  and  meat,  he  would  be  on  his  way  there  with 
that  comfortable  purse  of  nine  hundred  francs  in 
his  pocket,  eager  to  tell  his  good  comrade  and  dear 
wife  of  the  day's  success. 

He  was  alone  at  his  table,  but  three  or  four  men 
whom  he  knew  slightly  nodded  with  friendliness 
across  the  room ;  he  was  a  man  who  inspired  friend- 


A    GAME    OF    CARDS  55 

liness.  In  the  big  hall,  in  all  Delesmontes,  in  all 
the  country  was  no  one  happier  or  more  satisfied 
with  life  than  Francois  Beaupre  when  he  entered  the 
Inn  of  the  Bear  at  three  o'clock  on  that  sunshiny 
afternoon  of  September  the  eighth.  Before  six 
he  rose  up  to  leave  it  a  man  ruined  and  broken 
hearted. 

A  waitress  approached  him — a  somnicllicre — trim 
in  her  short  calico  skirt  and  white  apron,  her  hair 
done  in  the  picturesque  fashion  of  the  place — 
braided  and  turned  around  the  head  in  the  back,  in 
the  front  parted  and  laid  in  two  great  puffs  with 
a  wide  blue  ribbon  between  to  hold  it.  The  girl  took 
his  order;  as  she  turned  to  go  a  man  just  coming 
in  knocked  against  her,  and  apologizing  with  many 
words,  caught  sight  of  Frangois. 

"Good  day!"  he  saluted  him  heartily.  "Good 
day,  Monsieur  Beaupre,"  and  Francois,  friendly 
always,  answered  "Good  day,"  but  with  a  reserve, 
for  he  did  not  recall  the  man.  "You  don't  remem 
ber  me  ?  That  is  natural,  for  we  met  but  once.  Yet 
I  have  not  forgotten  yon.  It  was  at  the  house  of 
my  cousin,  Paul  Noirjean  of  Devillier — he  who 
also  deals  in  oxen,  though  not  so  fortunately  as  you, 
perhaps.  We  met  there.  I  saw  you  only  a  few 
minutes,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  you,  and  my 


56  THE    MARSHAL 

cousin  also  speaks  very  often  of  Frangois  Beaupre. 
He  has  a  great  opinion  of  your  judgment." 

Now  Paul  Noirjean  was  an  old  acquaintance  and 
a  solid  man,  and  though  Beaupre  did  not  see  him 
often,  living  six  leagues  away,  he  respected  him 
highly.  A  cousin  of  his  was  to  be  considered,  and 
Frangois  was  embarrassed  that  his  memory  could 
not  focus  on  the  meeting.  He  tried  to  cover  this 
with  cordiality,  and  invited  the  stranger  to  share 
his  meal. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  the  other  answered.  "Yet 
we  must  have  a  bottle  of  wine  together,  but  it  shall 
be  my  bottle." 

Francois  objected;  the  man  insisted.  At  length: 
"See,  we  will  play  cards  for  that  bottle,"  the  un 
known  man  suggested,  and  the  cards  were  brought, 
and  a  game  of  La  rams — euchre — was  in  progress  in 
two  minutes. 

Meanwhile  the  wine  had  come,  and  Francois,  a 
touch  more  generous  and  more  cordial  for  it,  was 
genially  sorry  when  he  won  and  the  stranger  must 
pay. 

"Tiens!  We  will  play  again  for  another  bottle," 
he  announced  with  a  bit  of  swagger.  He  was  con 
scious  of  a  right  to  spend  silver  in  treating  his 
friends,  with  that  fat  purse  in  his  pocket. 


A    GAME    OF    CARDS  57 

"No,"  spoke  the  stranger — Duplessis,  he  had  said 
his  name  was.  "No.  I  have  drunk  enough.  How 
ever,  if  you  feel  sensitive  at  taking  the  small  sum  of 
money  at  my  hands — it  is  a  good  game — La  rains — 
let  us  play  for  the  franc  which  the  bottle  would  cost. 
Eh  bien !" 

Frangois  certainly  could  not  refuse  that;  they 
played,  and  again  he  gained.  Again  they  played, 
this  time  doubling  the  amount,  and  again  Frangois 
gained,  and  again  and  again,  till  he  felt  ashamed  in 
carrying  away  all  this  money  of  a  new  acquaintance, 
and  at  the  same  time  a  cock-sureness  that  so  lucky  a 
devil  as  Beaupre  might  well  lose  a  little  and  stop  at 
the  right  amount.  He  insisted  that  the  game  should 
go  on.  More  wine  had  been  brought.  The  excite 
ment  of  cards  and  excitement  of  wine  met  in  a 
heady  mixture ;  Duplessis  drank  little,  though  Fran- 
9015  urged  it  on  him.  The  luck  began  to  change; 
now  and  then  the  stranger  won,  now  and  then 
Beaupre,  yet  more  often  now  the  stranger,  till  at 
length  Francois  was  playing  not  with  the  desire  to 
lose,  but  with  a  hope  to  gain  back  something  at  least 
of  the  considerable  sum  which  he  had  lost.  Before 
this  he  had  gone  into  his  pocket  and  brought  out 
that  honorable  nine  hundred  francs,  and  had  thrown 
one  louis  d'or  after  another  on  the  black  table,  and 


58  THE    MARSHAL 

lost  one  after  another.  Yet  his  confidence  was  still 
strong — luck  would  turn — this  was  his  lucky  day. 
And  now  he  would  not  regret  carrying  away  the 
stranger's  money.  He  began  to  feel  a  fierce  eager 
ness  to  get  the  better  of  this  antagonist  become  so 
formidable.  And  a  horrible  nervousness  was  creep 
ing  over  him  at  the  dim  vision  of  a  thought — a 
thought  kept  resolutely  on  the  confines  of  his  con 
sciousness,  yet  persistently  pushing  forward — the 
thought  that  it  might  be  that  he  could  not  win  the 
money  back. 

With  eyes  excited  and  bright  on  the  table,  with 
fingers  snapping  out  the  cards  boldly,  that  thought 
shook  him  suddenly — he  jeered  at  it  and  despised  it. 
It  was  absurd,  grotesque.  He  was  Frangois  Beau- 
pre,  a  rich  peasant,  a  respected  and  well-known 
citizen;  moreover,  of  good  judgment;  and  moreover 
still,  lucky.  He  had  been  lucky  all  his  life;  always 
things  had  turned  his  way;  the  trick  was  not  going 
to  fail  him  now. 

"Double!"  he  shouted  promptly  as  he  lost  again. 

And  he  lost  again.  The  nine  hundred  francs  were 
gone;  he  gave  a  note  now,  on  his  stock,  and  again 
he  lost.  A  deathly  sickening  sensation  had  gripped 
him  and  was  holding  him;  the  horrid  thought  had 
come  close  and  was  looking  him  in  the  face;  he 


A    GAME    OF    CARDS  59 

seemed  to  feel  an  appalling  hot  breath  from  it.  He 
tossed  off  another  glass  of  wine  and  for  a  moment 
was  dumb.  Then  in  a  flash  he  saw  what  he  must  do ; 
this  was  of  course  the  last  point  before  the  luck 
turned — that  was  evident.  It  would  make  a  fine  tale 
how  Le  Francois  had  come  within  one  of  losing  all 
he  owned,  but  even  then  his  courage  had  not  failed 
him.  He  had  drunk  off  his  wine  at  that  crucial 
moment  and  called  "Double!"  once  more  in  a  stout 
voice,  and  played — and  won.  Won  back  all  he  had 
lost  and  more — so  the  tale  would  run. 

And  so  Frangois  set  down  the  glass  empty,  and 
for  the  last  time  cried  the  fatal  word — "Double !" 

In  silence,  with  a  crowd  of  silent  men,  who  in 
some  way  had  come  to  know  what  was  happening, 
standing  about  them,  the  two  played  the  last  round. 
And  Frangois  lost. 

In  silence  he  signed  the  note  which  gave  to  the 
stranger  his  house  and  furniture  and  land,  all  that 
he  had  in  the  world,  and  stood  up  and  looked  about 
at  the  faces  gathered  as  if  astonished.  A  long 
second  he  looked  at  them;  then  he  bent  and  stared 
from  the  low  open  window  which  faced  him,  and  the 
men,  following  his  eyes,  saw  with  a  manner  of  shock 
that  they  were  focused  on  the  distant  village  of 
Vieques  and  on  the  church  standing  separated  at  one 


60  THE   MARSHAL 

end  of  it,  and  on  the  house  next,  his  home.  With 
that  he  stood  straight,  and  fell  through  the  crowd 
without  a  word,  and  out  of  the  doorway,  and 
plunged  forward  with  strides  which  lurched  drunk- 
enly.  But  he  was  not  drunk. 


CHAPTER    VII 

WORK   AND   HOPE 

THE  next  day  a  sheriff  and  his  clerk  came  and 
fixed  red  seals  to  the  house  and  to  everything 
in  it  which  locked,  and  Claire  watched  in  a  deep 
quiet,  the  baby  in  her  arms.  The  children  watched 
too,  awed,  but  yet  pleased,  as  it  is  with  children,  to 
be  part  of  an  event.  Tomas  bragged  openly  to 
Alphonse  Villeneuve. 

"You  have  no  affairs  at  your  house,"  he  observed. 
"At  our  house  all  the  neighbors  are  crying,  and 
there  is  a  very  fine  man,  the  sheriff,  who  puts  red 
things  on  the  table  drawers  and  on  my  father's  desk. 
It  is  amusing  to  have  affairs." 

It  came  as  a  surprise  to  such  honest  pride  to  re 
ceive  at  this  moment  a  blow  on  the  ear  from  his 
older  brother.  "Blockhead,"  Francois  said,  "do  you 
not  understand  that  we  are  losing  our  home?  Is 
that  amusing?" 

The  brown  eyes  of  Francois  were  burning  like 
coals  as  he  stalked  away  from  Tomas — quiet  for 

61 


62  THE    MARSHAL 

once — like  a  tragedy  hero.  On  his  shoulders,  it 
seemed,  was  the  weight  of  the  world,  and  he  could 
not,  as  he  longed  to,  carry  it.  He,  being  the  oldest 
son,  should,  according  to  his  code  of  eleven  years, 
take  up  his  nightmare  which  had  turned  his  gay 
capable  father  into  a  crushed  heap  sitting  there  at 
the  table  of  the  great  room,  and  his  happy  calm- 
eyed  mother  into  a  haggard  statue  of  a  woman.  He 
ought  to  lift  it  from  them  and  throw  it  far  away 
by  some  heroic  effort,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to 
begin.  The  sheriff  seemed  as  sorry  as  any  one;  it 
was  of  no  use  to  attack  the  sheriff,  which  he  had 
considered.  And  that  evil  spirit,  that  man  who  had 
taken  their  happiness  in  an  afternoon,  Dnplessis, 
kept  far  away.  His  heart  swollen  with  affection  and 
aching  for  action,  Francois  stood  about  uselessly. 
In  him  grew  a  resolve  that  he  would  give  up  all  that 
he  had  hoped  for,  the  normal  school  at  Delesmontes, 
the  college  after,  everything,  to  work  and  win  back 
the  lost  home  for  his  people. 

Something  had  been  said  already  of  sending  the 
children  to  this  or  that  uncle  or  aunt — there  would 
in  a  short  time  be  no  home  and  no  living  for  them 
until  the  broken  father  could  gather  himself  and 
begin  again.  Little  Frangois  resolved  that  he  would 
not  go.  He  would  stay  with  his  father  and  prove 


WORK    AND    HOPE  63 

that  eleven  was  not  too  young  to  make  money.  As 
he  stood  watching  the  sheriff  who  moved  gloomily 
about  his  unwelcome  duty  he  was  aware  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  beating  down  the  road,  and  he  turned.  In 
the  midst  of  his  grief  it  was  interesting  to  see  the 
Baron-General  Gourgaud  coming,  on  his  bay  mare 
Lisette.  The  general  drew  up  beside  him  and 
looked  at  him  sternly. 

"Where  is  your  father?"  he  shot  at  him,  and 
threw  a  leg  over  and  vaulted  off  and  flung  the  mare's 
reins  to  the  lad,  and  swung  into  the  great  entry  and 
through  the  open  door  into  the  cottage. 

Francois,  though  broken-hearted,  was  but  eleven, 
and  it  was  a  proud  thing  to  hold  the  seigneur's  horse 
and  pleasant  to  see  the  spirited  beast  paw  the  earth 
as  he  held  her.  He  was  so  entranced  with  this  occu 
pation  that  he  forgot  his  bruised  life  and  his  lost 
career  entirely.  For  fifteen  minutes  he  forgot,  and 
the  other  children  gathered  around  him,  and  he  or 
dered  them  away  from  the  horse  and  felt  himself  its 
guardian  and  an  important  person,  with  complete 
satisfaction. 

And  at  that,  out  of  the  house  came  the  seigneur, 
big  and  black-browed  and  solid  of  tread,  and  with 
him  that  broken-hearted  father  whose  face  recalled 
all  the  tragedy. 


64  THE    MARSHAL 

"Francois,"  his  father  spoke,  more  gently  than 
ever  he  had  spoken  before,  "I  have  taken  your  future 
from  you,  my  son.  The  seigneur  wishes  to  give  it 
back.  He  wishes  to  make  you  his  child.  Your 
mother  consents — and  I — I  consent."  His  father's 
arm  was  about  his  neck.  The  general's  abrupt  voice 
took  up  the  statement. 

"Will  you  come  and  live  with  me  in  the  chateau, 
Monsieur  the  Marshal?"  he  demanded  roughly, 
kindly.  "I  will  treat  you  as  a  son — you  shall  learn 
to  ride  a  horse  and  shoot  a  gun  and  be  a  soldier. 
You  shall  fit  yourself  for  the  part  which  we  know 
must  be  played  one  day.  Will  you  come  ?" 

Frangois,  staring  up  with  his  great  eyes  stretched, 
was  dumb.  Just  now  all  that  he  had  hoped  for  in 
life  had  been  snatched  from  him;  more  than  he  had 
dreamed  was  now  offered  in  a  turn  of  the  hand. 
For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  heaven  had  opened  and 
a  miracle  of  joy  come  down;  then  it  flashed  to  his 
mind  that  this  dazzling  gift  had  a  price.  He  felt 
the  touch  of  his  father,  the  ruined  sorrowful  father; 
he  saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  entry  his  mother  who 
listened;  in  a  flood  he  remembered  their  lifelong 
love  and  his  resolutions  of  five  minutes  ago — the 
hard  life  of  labor  and  saving  which  he  had  planned 
for  himself.  There  is  no  half-way  with  a  child. 


WORK    AND    HOPE  65 

With  a  whole  soul  Frangois  cast  away  the  brilliant 
dream  and  hardly  felt  an  effort. 

"I  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  my  Seigneur,"  he 
answered  with  decision.  "I  can  not  go  with  you. 
I  must  stay  and  work  for  rny  father  and  my 
mother." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  in  the  sunshiny 
garden;  the  children  had  wandered  away;  the  men 
did  not  speak;  one  heard  only  the  mare  Lisette 
whom  Francois  held,  who  stamped  her  light  fore 
foot  and  whinnied  impatiently.  Then  the  general's 
grave  voice  sounded,  more  gravely  than  ever. 

"Francois  Beaupre,  you  own  a  fine  lad,"  he 
threw  at  the  drooping  peasant.  "I  would  like  to 
have  him  for  mine.  Since  I  can  not,  I  shall  try  at 
least  to  be  his  friend.  Monsieur  the  Marshal,  it 
must  be  as  you  say.  But  come  to  see  me  at  the 
chateau  soon.  I  shall  have  things  to  talk  over  with 
you." 

Little  Francois,  absorbed  in  admiration  of  the 
easy  way  in  which  the  seigneur  threw  a  leg  across 
the  restless  Lisette,  wishing  desperately  that  he 
might  learn  to  ride  such  a  horse,  was  disconcerted, 
as  the  dancing  brown  feet  cantered  away,  to  feel  his 
father's  arms  holding  him  suddenly,  closely,  and  a 
wetness  on  his  cheek. 


66  THE    MARSHAL 

"Why  are  you  crying,  my  father?"  he  asked  won 
dering. 

Three  weeks  later,  of  all  the  seven  children  only 
Francois  and  the  baby  were  left  with  their  father 
and  mother.  The  others  were  portioned  out,  one 
here,  two  there,  among  charitable  uncles  and  aunts 
until  the  time  should  come,  if  ever,  when  Le  Fran- 
qois  should  prosper  enough  again  to  care  for  them 
all.  He  had  rented  a  small  cottage  at  the  other  end 
of  the  village,  and  Claire,  in  happy  times  a  quiet 
woman  of  few  words,  had  suddenly  acquired  pro 
nounced  gaiety.  The  little  feet  of  her  seemed  al 
ways  moving  about  the  poor  place  and  she  sang  at 
her  work,  which  was  a  new  habit. 

"How  can  you?"  the  elder  Francois  asked  one 
day,  and  she  explained  to  him. 

"A  house  without  brightness  might  as  well  not  be. 
In  the  other  time  you  were  cheerful  always — at 
present  you  can  not  be,  so  I  do  it  for  you.  With 
hope  and  work  everything  will  come  right  again, 
and  I  dare  not  stop  hoping  or  working.  I  dare  not 
let  grief  take  hold  of  me,  for  it  would  choke  me. 
We  have  two  children,  and  we  shall  get  back  the 
rest.  Do  not  look  backward,  my  Francois,  where 


WORK    AND    HOPE  67 

there  was  joy,  but  forward,  where  there  will  be 
joy." 

And  big  Francois  brought  down  his  fist  with  a 
bang  on  the  table.  "It  is  the  right  stuff  that  is  in 
you.  It  is  the  women  who  are  brave.  I  will  be  like 
a  woman  if  I  may!  I  will  stop  this  whining  and 
live  like  you,  whom  I  have  ruined." 

And  he  did  it.  So  it  happened  that  the  memory 
of  little  Franqois  held  only  pleasant  pictures  of  those 
days  of  sudden  poverty;  recollections  of  a  bare  little 
place  which  shaped  swiftly  to  attractiveness,  of 
comradeship  with  his  father  in  the  business  of 
money-getting;  of  deep  satisfaction  at  feeling  him 
self  a  factor  in  the  growing  hoard,  and,  above  all,  a 
recollection  of  that  exquisite  gaiety  of  his  mother 
which  had  no  likeness  to  resignation  or  duty,  but 
rang  with  the  unselfishness  of  love.  Moreover,  the 
hard  labor  to  which  he  had  sentenced  himself  came 
in  an  unexpected  and  delightful  shape. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  RETREAT  FROM   MOSCOW 

ON  a  morning  Frangois  was  busy  at  the  new 
garden,  digging  beds  for  the  plants  which  the 
neighbors  had  eagerly  given  them,  and  which,  put 
in  the  ground  now,  in  the  autumn,  would  rise  above 
them  in  brightness  next  spring.  He  heard  the  dishes 
clatter  as  his  mother  inside  set  the  table  for  their 
bare  dinner;  he  smelled  the  soup  cooking;  he  heard 
his  mother  sing  as  she  moved  about;  he  lifted  his 
head  and  saw  her  through  the  open  window,  in  a 
bar  of  misty  sunshine.  The  world  seemed  bright; 
surely  when  there  is  sunshine  and  the  smell  of  good 
earth  and  the  smell  of  good  food,  when  one's  mother 
sings — then  the  world  is  bright.  Franqois  fell  to 
whistling  A  I'eco'le  du  Roi,  the  old  chanson  which 
his  mother  sang. 

Into  this  contentment  came,  galloping  gloriously, 
hoof  beats  of  a  horse.  The  busy  spade,  several 
sizes  too  big,  stopped,  and  Francois  leaned  his  chin 
on  the  handle,  the  boy  out  of  drawing  for  the  tool. 

68 


THE   RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     69 

He  stood,  like  a  quaint  little  old  workman,  watching 
to  see  the  general  pass,  the  general  on  that  apothe 
osis  of  horse-flesh,  Lisette.  But  the  general  stopped, 
which  was  a  heavenly  surprise  to  Francois  each  time 
that  it  happened. 

"Good  morning,  Marshal.  How  goes  the  fight 
ing?  The  colonel,  your  father,  is  in  the  field,  is  he 
not?  Will  you  ask  the  lieutenant-colonel,  your 
mother,  if  I  may  speak  to  her?" 

And  the  general,  flinging  titles  about  him,  sprang 
to  the  ground.  "All  marshals  to  stay  inside,"  he 
shouted  after  the  boy.  "Council  of  war  excluding 
field-officers  above  generals." 

"Mother,  mother,  the  seigneur  wishes  you," 
Francois  whispered  piercingly,  but  Claire  was  al 
ready  on  the  little  front  walk  by  the  new  garden. 

In  a  moment  she  stood  at  the  gate  in  her  fresh 
calico  dress,  with  a  white  fichu  over  her  head,  and 
the  big  man  towered  and  growled  sentences  friend- 
lily.  Francois,  obedient  in  the  cottage,  gazed  ear 
nestly  from  the  window  out  of  earshot,  incurious, 
admiring.  Long  years  after  he  remembered  the 
picture:  the  little  boy,  whose  life  was  being  settled, 
gazing  from  the  humble  house  at  the  old  soldier  who 
opened  a  door  for  that  small  life  into  large  possi 
bilities  ;  and  the  mother  who  loved  him  and  saw  the 


70  THE    MARSHAL 

first  step  for  her  boy  on  a  ladder  that  mounted 
above  her. 

Then  the  general  trotted  with  jingling  stirrup 
down  the  village  street  and  Claire  stood  with  eyes 
following  for  a  moment.  When  she  turned  she  was 
smiling  yet,  but  Franqois  vaguely  wondered  at  the 
movement  which  twisted  her  mouth  for  a  second  as 
she  looked  at  him.  She  put  her  arm  around  his  neck 
and  kissed  him,  which  was  pleasant  but  seemed  un 
practical. 

"What  did  the  seigneur  say,  my  mother?"  he  de 
manded,  struggling  away.  "Did  he  say  I  might 
come  to  the  chateau  to-morrow  ?  May  I  ?  Am  I  to 
know  what  the  general  said,  my  mother  ?" 

For  he  considered  the  seigneur  his  property;  he 
was  a  bit  injured  at  being  excluded  from  the  council 
of  war,  he,  the  Marshal. 

After  his  father  came  home  to  dinner  he  knew. 
He  was  to  go  each  morning  to  the  chateau  and  do 
work  in  copying  for  the  general.  The  general  was 
writing  a  book,  nothing  less  than  a  history  of  Na 
poleon  himself.  The  boy's  great  dreamy  eyes 
glowed.  What  luck  to  help  in  such  a  glory!  How 
glad  he  was  that  he  wrote  fastest  and  most  accu 
rately  of  all  the  boys  in  school!  And  the  general 
was  to  pay  him  six  francs  a  week — it  was  dazzling! 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     71 

That  would  make  the  hoard  mount  beyond  anything 
he  had  dared  to  hope.  That  would  be  a  real  help  to 
his  mother  and  to  his  father — "Is  it  not,  my 
father?" 

And  the  father  said  yes,  proudly.  And  neither 
mother  nor  father  suggested  that  there  was  even 
more  to  this  great  future. 

So  the  little  lad,  in  his  clean,  patched,  peasant 
clothes,  went  up  to  the  chateau  the  next  morning 
serious  and  important,  and  was  given  a  table  and  a 
corner  in  the  library  and  words  to  copy  which 
thrilled  his  soul.  For  the  very  first  was  about  the 
battle  of  Austerlitz  and  the  sunshine  and  the  frozen 
river;  it  seemed  a  fate  big  enough  for  any  life  to  sit 
there  in  the  quiet  book-lined  room  and  write  out 
such  things  direct  from  a  man  who  had  seen  them. 

It  came  to  be  the  spring  of  the  year,  and  day  after 
day  Frangois  trod  the  path  down  the  village  street 
past  his  old  home,  which  he  resolutely  looked  away 
from,  and  across  the  arch  of  the  old  Roman  bridge. 
From  there  he  glanced  up  always  to  see  the  first 
broad  view  of  the  red  castled  roof  with  the  gray 
towers  below,  vague  through  the  trees.  There  were 
nuts  by  the  thousand  in  the  stately  beech  woods  of 
the  castled  park,  but  Frangois  was  too  busy  a  man  to 
stop  for  nuts  in  the  mornings.  Straight  on  he 


72  THE    MARSHAL 

marched  to  the  little  side  door,  and  there  Jean 
Phillippe  Moison,  the  son  of  Jean  Phillippe  Moison 
of  Delesmontes,  now  a  footman  at  the  chateau  and 
the  wearer  of  very  beautiful  purple  and  gold  clothes, 
opened  the  door  and  let  him  in. 

Day  after  day,  week  after  week  he  labored  with 
all  his  might  at  the  piles  of  manuscript;  when  it  was 
a  question  of  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death  he 
was  a  happy  boy,  and  also  he  sometimes  made  mis 
takes  for  joy  of  the  story;  but  when  descriptions  of 
the  Emperor's  policy  came,  and  lists  of  provisions 
and  such  things,  then,  naturally,  one  was  at  times 
tired.  Yet  the  work  followed  the  bent  of  his  in 
clination,  for  all  that  concerned  war  and  soldiers 
concerned  this  lad  of  twelve.  World  after  world 
opened  before  him  as  he  worked  in  the  big  room  at 
his  table,  set  into  the  window  slitted  into  the  deep 
gray  wall.  A  bookcase  stood  out  at  the  angle  there ; 
one  would  hardly  see  the  still  little  figure,  the  thin 
ankles  twisted  about  the  rounds  of  the  high  chair, 
the  slim  shoulders  bent  over  the  sheets  of  writing. 
Often  the  general  talked  to  him. 

"Eh  Hen,  there,  the  Marshal !"  would  come  thun 
dering  from  the  great  table  across  the  room;  and 
the  scribe  would  drop  his  pen  and  scuttle  over  the 
dim  wide  place. 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     73 

"Yes,  Monsieur  the  Seigneur.    I  am  here." 

"Listen  then,  my  soldier.  I  am  uncertain  if  this 
that  I  have  written  is  of  importance.  It  is  interest 
ing  to  me,  because  Gaspard  Gourgaud  was  there, 
yet  I  do  not  wish  to  ram  Gaspard  Gourgaud  down  a 
reader's  throat.  So  listen,  you  marmot,  as  an  officer 
of  rank,  and  as  a  literary  critic,  and  say  truthfully 
if  you  find  it  interesting." 

Frangois  squatted  on  a  stool  exactly  in  front  of 
the  general,  with  his  knees  together  and  his  elbows 
on  them,  his  chin  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands.  His 
eyes  were  glued  on  the  general's  face.  In  a  deep 
voice  the  general  read.  It  was  an  account  of  that 
world-tragedy,  the  retreat  from  Moscow.  First 
came  a  list  of  regiments  and  of  officers,  with  de 
tailed  accounts  of  early  service  in  both ;  it  was  exact, 
accurate.  For  five  minutes  the  general  read  this; 
then  his  black  eyebrows  lifted  and  he  glared  over 
the  paper. 

"You  find  it  interesting?"  he  demanded. 

Francois,  lips  compressed,  shook  his  head  firmly. 
"No,  my  Seigneur.  Not  at  all."  And  the  general's 
gaze  concentrated  fiercely  on  the  humble  patch  of 
brown  homespun.  The  boy's  great  eyes  met  his 
calmly. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  the  general  said,  and  sorted 


74  THE    MARSHAL 

the  papers  over  and  laid  some  away.  "You  are  an 
uncommon  critic,"  he  went  on.  "You  speak  the 
truth.  It  is  what  I  want."  Selecting  a  sheet  or  two, 
he  began  to  read  again. 

"Over  the  frozen  roads  the  worn  army  still 
trudged;  every  form  of  misery  trudged  with  them. 
Hunger  was  there,  and  cold,  and  suffering  of 
wounds,  and  suffering  of  lack  of  clothing;  more 
than  this,  there  was  the  constant  dread  of  attack 
from  flying  bands  of  Cossacks.  From  time  to  time 
frightful  explosions  made  one  turn  one's  head — it 
was  the  caissons  exploded  by  order  of  the  Emperor 
that  they  might  no  longer  encumber  us.  The  snow 
fell.  The  low-hanging  sky  was  heavy  with  more 
snow-clouds;  often  a  wind  cut  to  our  ill-covered 
bones;  the  road  was  sleety;  the  worn  shoes  of  the 
emaciated  horses  slipped  on  the  frozen  ground;  the 
soldiers  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheels  to  help 
their  horses." 

Through  the  reverberating  tones  of  the  old  soldier 
cut  a  child's  sigh.  The  bushy  eyebrows  arched  and 
a  glance  shot  over  the  paper  at  the  tense  small  figure. 
The  voice  went  on. 

"The  Emperor  marched  on  foot  with  us.  Staff  in 
hand,  wrapped  in  a  large  loose  cloak,  a  furred 
Russian  cap  on  his  head,  he  walked  in  the  midst  or 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     75 

his  household,  encouraging  with  a  word,  with  a 
smile,  every  one  who  came  near  him.  At  night  he 
slept  often  in  a  cabin  without  doors  or  windows,  his 
rough  bed  screened  with  difficulty;  he  shared  our 
sorrows,  our  Little  Corporal,  our  Emperor.  He  was 
pale,  but  calm  as  always,  for  his  face  never  showed 
his  mind.  Over  frozen  roads  of  Russia,  strewn  with 
the  men  and  horses  who  were  killed  by  fatigue  and 
famine,  day  after  day  Napoleon  walked  with  his 
army." 

There  was  no  sound  now,  but  the  general,  glanc 
ing  up  again,  met  eyes  so  on  fire  that  he  was  dis 
concerted  and  lost  his  place.  In  a  moment  he  had 
found  it  again. 

"There  were  many  adventures  which  showed  the 
souls  of  men  shining  through  the  nightmare  of  this 
horrible  time.  Many  noble  deeds  were  done,  many 
heartbreaking  ones.  One  which  was  both  happened 
to  me.  There  was  an  Italian  officer  in  the  corps 
under  Prince  Eugene,  who  had  been  my  comrade 
when  I  was  on  the  staff  of  Lannes;  his  name  was 
Zappi — the  Marquis  Zappi.  On  the  day  after  the 
dreadful  passing  of  the  Beresina  River,  I  suddenly 
felt  my  strength  go — I  could  walk  no  longer.  The 
horrors  of  the  day  before  had  capped  the  long 
stretch  of  privation ;  like  thousands  of  others,  I 


76  THE    MARSHAL 

must  drop  out  and  die.  I  looked  at  the  piles  of 
snow  by  the  trampled  roadside,  at  the  gray  sky  over 
me — on  that  frozen  bed,  under  that  pitiless  roof,  I 
must  lie  down.  A  sick  loathing  seized  me,  and  I 
groaned  and  dragged  my  heavy  feet  forward,  to 
stay  with  my  friends  even  a  few  steps  more.  And 
with  that  an  arm  was  around  me  suddenly,  and  I 
heard  Zappi's  quiet  voice. 

"  'Keep  up  your  courage,  comrade;  we  are  going 
to  see  our  homes  yet,'  he  said.  'I  shall  take  care  of 
you.  Look' — and  I  looked,  and  he  had  a  sledge 
with  fur  robes  on  it.  I  never  knew  where  he  got 
it — from  some  deserted  Russian  house,  I  suppose. 
He  put  me  on  the  sledge  and  wrapped  me  in  the 
furs  and  gave  me  brandy  from  his  flask.  For  Zappi 
had  done  a  clever  thing.  He  had  made  a  bargain 
with  some  Jesuits  near  Polotsk,  where  he  had 
camped  for  a  while,  that  his  men  should  cut  and 
beat  the  wheat  necessary  on  condition  that  he  should 
have  a  part  of  the  brandy  for  them.  He  had  kept 
some  of  his  share  yet,  and  it  saved  my  life  that  day, 
the  brandy  of  the  monks  of  Polotsk. 

"So  Zappi  drew  me,  weak  and  helpless,  on  the 
sledge  for  days,  and  cared  for  me  like  a  baby,  and 
brought  me  back  to  comparative  strength.  One 
would  believe  that  after  such  kindness  I  would 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     77 

gladly  have  given  my  life  for  my  friend;  instead  of 
that  I  tried  to  take  his  life." 

The  shock  that  caught  the  little  figure  down  on 
the  stool  arrested  the  general's  deep  voice.  He  low 
ered  the  paper  and  glared.  "But  wait,  Monsieur 
the  Marshal ;  wait  till  you  hear  the  story ;  don't  con 
demn  a  man  unheard,"  he  interjected.  The  reading 
went  on. 

"There  was  a  thick  fog  on  that  day,  and  out  of 
it,  and  out  of  the  wood  we  must  pass,  rushed  with 
wild  cries  a  cloud  of  mounted  Cossacks  across  the 
road  within  twenty  paces  of  the  Emperor  himself. 
But  General  Rapp  dashed  forward  at  the  head  of 
two  mounted  squadrons  of  chasseurs  and  grenadiers 
of  the  guard  who  always  followed  the  Emperor,  and 
the  Cossacks  were  put  to  flight.  I  was  in  the  charge ; 
I  was  serving  temporarily  in  the  place  of  one  of 
Rapp's  officers,  because,  on  account  of  my  late 
weakness,  it  was  thought  well  that  I  should  be  on 
horseback.  So  it  happened  that,  as  the  skirmish 
finished,  I  saw  coming  toward  me  a  figure  in  a 
furred  coat  and  cap,  brandishing  a  Cossack  lance — 
rushing  toward  the  Emperor.  I  dashed  down  on  the 
mad  Cossack,  as  I  thought  him,  and  passed  my 
great  saber  through  his  body.  And  the  man  fell, 
and  as  he  fell  the  fur  cap  went  off  and  he  groaned 


78  THE    MARSHAL 

and  looked  up  at  me  with  dying  eyes — it  was 
Zappi." 

"Ah !"  The  little  figure  had  sprung  up  and  stood, 
fists  clenched,  threatening.  One  would  have  thought 
it  was  this  second  that  the  general  had  sabered 
Zappi. 

"May  I  live  a  moment?"  the  general  inquired. 
"Till  I  explain.  Zappi  did  not  die." 

"Ah!"  again.  And  Francois  sank  relieved  on  the 
stool,  yet  with  stern  eyes  still  on  the  general's  face. 
The  general  laid  the  papers  aside. 

"Not  he.  He  had  seized  the  lance  from  a  Russian 
whom  he  had  killed — it  was  most  imprudent,  espe 
cially  in  the  dress  he  wore,  which  did  not  show  the 
French  uniform  underneath.  It  was  my  turn  then 
to  play  nurse.  He  was  placed  in  one  of  the  car 
riages  of  the  Emperor,  and  I  cared  for  him  as  my 
own  brother,  and  he  came  through  it  all,  and  went 
back  to  Italy,  to  his  home." 

The  general's  deep-set  eyes  were  gazing  now 
above  Francois'  head  out  through  the  narrow  win 
dow  where  the  boy's  table  stood,  across  the  moun 
tain  slope,  to  the  blue  distance. 

"Alessandro,  my  friend,"  he  spoke  in  his  gruff 
tones,  yet  softly,  "shall  we  see  each  other  again? 
So  close  through  that  black  time,  so  far  apart  now 


THE    RETREAT    FROM    MOSCOW     79 

in  the  peace  of  our  homes!  Those  warm  hands 
which  cared  for  me  when  I  was  freezing  and  dying 
in  Russia — I  shall  touch  them  perhaps  never  again, 
never  again!" 

Francois,  forgotten  in  the  general's  very  French 
access  of  emotion,  squatted  in  front  of  him  and  re 
garded  him  in  a  practical  peasant  fashion.  With 
that  he  spoke,  businesslike,  fatherly. 

"One  should  not  say  that  word  never,  my  Sei 
gneur,"  he  remarked.  ''One  should  believe  that  the 
good  thing  will  happen,  and  if  the  good  God  thinks 
best  it  will  happen.  Besides  that,  if  one  believes  a 
thing  to  be  true,  it  is  all  the  same  as  if  it  were  true." 

The  general,  brought  to  the  right-about  by  this 
firmness,  looked  down  with  an  enormous  frown. 
"Ha!  A  wise  little  old  Marshal!  It  is  lucky  for 
me  that  I  have  such  to  superintend  me.  How  came 
you  to  know  these  great  thoughts,  Monsieur  ?" 

"It  is  my  mother  who  says  that,"  Francois  an 
swered,  undisturbed  by  the  sarcasm.  "So,  my  Sei 
gneur,  because  my  mother  says  it,  I  know  it  to  be 
the  truth." 

"Ha!"  exploded  the  general  again,  and  then,  re 
flectively:  "It  is  a  simple  and  inexpensive  philos 
ophy — on  the  whole  there  might  be  worse." 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   CROWN   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

IN  a  claw- footed,  carved,  old,  mahogany  desk  of  a 
Virginia  house,  in  a  drawer  where  are  packets 
of  yellowed  letters  tied  up  and  labeled,  is  a  letter 
written  years  later,  referring  to  that  earlier  time  in 
France.  Perhaps  this  bit  of  the  chronicle  of  Fran- 
qois  Beaupre  could  not  be  told  so  vividly  as  in  these 
words  of  Francois  written  from  his  prison.  He 
begins  with  the  account  of  an  adventure,  of  a  ride 
for  life. 

"So,  dear  Alixe,"  he  finishes  this — the  detailed 
story  of  his  capture — "down  went  the  poor  horse, 
and  over  his  head  I  spun  into  the  ditch  with  a  bump 
on  the  skull  which  dazed  me.  And  when  I  came  to 
there  were  the  heavy  Austrians  around  me,  gaping 
to  see  the  Prince.  And  only  Francois  Beaupre  to 
see,  which  they  found  out  pretty  promptly,  as  I 
have  told  you  before,  and  also  how  I  defied  them. 
But  it  was  a  good  ride;  I  felt  that  all  through  the 
mad  rush,  and  if  you  will  believe  me,  Alixe,  as  I 

80 


THE   CROWN    OF    FRIENDSHIP       81 

rode  fast  from  my  enemies  that  morning,  with  more 
than  my  own  life  depending  on  the  legs  of  the  land 
lord's  horse,  I  was  thinking  most,  not  of  the  Prince, 
nor  yet  of  the  death  or  prison  which  awaited  me, 
but  all  the  time  of  those  rides  on  Coq  in  the  park  of 
the  chateau  of  Vieques,  when  you  and  I  went  by 
turns  over  his  lively  head,  and  the  seigneur  stood  by 
and  laughed. 

"You  remember  those  rides?  I  have  no  need  to 
ask  you,  but  it  pleases  me  to  say  'do  you  remember' 
— it  takes  me  out  of  this  dark  place  into  the  beech 
wood  with  its  air  and  lights  and  shadows.  Away 
back  it  takes  me,  to  that  first  morning  when  Coq 
came  and  work  was  not  even  considered  for  the 
whole  day,  and  you  and  the  seigneur  and  the  two 
grooms — Jules  I  remember,  I  have  forgotten  the 
other's  name ;  but  I  know  well  how  he  looked — and 
I,  Frangois,  spent  the  morning  in  the  park,  and  you 
and  I  by  turns  learned  to  ride  Coq.  You  were  good 
at  it  from  the  first,  and  I — I  was  not  bad.  N'est-ce 
pas,  Alixe  ?  None  the  less  Coq  put  each  of  us  over 
his  head  several  times — and  how  the  seigneur 
shouted  a  big  laugh  each  time !  He  treated  you  like 
a  boy  always,  and  you  learned  so  the  good  things 
that  few  girls  know — to  throw  a  ball  and  climb  and 
run,  to  be  courageous  and  laugh  when  hurt.  You 


82  THE    MARSHAL 

were  the  best  playmate  in  the  world,  Alixe,  and  it  is 
Francois  Beaupre,  the  leader  of  the  village  for  play, 
who  says  it.  That  game  of  all  games,  riding,  we 
learned  together  and  took  the  hard  knocks  equally. 
Many  times  I  have  thanked  the  seigneur  for  many 
things,  -but  never  so  much,  I  believe,  as  I  thanked 
him  that  morning  with  the  Austrians  closing  on  me 
for  having  made  me  a  horseman — because  that 
saved  the  Prince. 

"In  a  great  danger  they  say  one  thinks  more 
clearly  than  usual — one's  mind  works  with  smooth 
ness  and  at  leisure.  It  was  so  during  that  ride,  for 
I  followed  out  as  I  dashed  along,  hearing  the  shouts 
of  the  men  back  of  me,  the  whole  train  of  circum 
stances  from  one  of  those  mornings  with  Coq  in  the 
park,  to  this  adventure  of  life  and  death.  It  was  the 
morning — you  will  know  before  I  say  it — when 
Jean  Phillippe  Moison,  in  his  lovely  purple  clothes, 
came  mincing  down  the  graveled  drive,  as  if  afraid 
of  spoiling  his  good  shoes — and  I  think  he  was — to 
the  seigneur,  who  taught  us  to  ride  Coq.  Do  you 
remember  how  your  father  thundered  at  him  ? 

"  'A  strange  monsieur  to  see  me  ?  Impossible !  I 
am  engaged.  Tell  him  I  will  not  see  him.' 

"And  Jean  Phillippe  smiling,  for  all  of  them  un 
derstood  the  seigneur,  and  saying  gently,  'Yes,  my 


THE   CROWN    OF    FRIENDSHIP       83 

Seigneur,'  turned  away  with  the  message.  And 
your  father  shouted  after  him : 

"  'Stop!  Come  back  there!  What  do  you  mean 
by  that?  Bring  the  monsieur  to  me.'  And  the 
purple  clothes  disappeared  and  appeared  again  in  a 
few  minutes  gleaming  in  the  sun  against  the  gray 
old  walls — I  can  see  it  all  now,  Alixe — like  a  large 
violet  blossom  of  a  strange  flower.  And  behind  Jean 
Phillippe  was  a  tall  man  in  a  long  traveling  cloak, 
and  behind  him  a  tall  little  boy.  And  as  they  came 
the  seigneur  turned  to  go  to  meet  them,  and  stopped 
and  stared.  And  the  monsieur  in  the  cloak  stopped 
and  stared ;  and  you,  mounted  on  Coq,  and  I,  hold 
ing  Coq's  bridle,  watched  curiously,  because  of  the 
other  child,  and  we  saw  how  the  seigneur  suddenly 
began  to  shake  as  if  ill,  and  then  with  a  hoarse  shout 
rushed  to  the  tall  man  and  threw  his  arms  about 
him  and  held  him,  and  sobbed  aloud.  That  was  a 
strange  thing  to  see  the  seigneur  do,  and  I  never 
forgot  it.  And  to  think  that  the  child  who  stood 
there,  shy  and  unknown,  was  Pietro!  It  seems  un 
reasonable  that  ever  there  was  a  time  when  you  and 
Pietro  and  I  did  not  know  one  another  well. 

"As  I  rode  that  day,  with  the  Austrians  after  me, 
I  thought  out  the  whole  chain  of  events;  how 
Pietro  had  come  and  had  stayed  while  his  father, 


84  THE    MARSHAL 

the  marquis,  went  to  America,  and  had  fitted  into 
our  life  and  become  dear  to  us,  the  big,  beautiful, 
silent  lad.  And  how  then,  because  of  the  death  of 
the  marquis,  Pietro  had  come  under  the  charge  of 
your  father,  the  seigneur,  and  how  he  and  I  went 
away  together  to  the  military  school,  always  more 
and  more  like  brothers  and — all  the  rest.  I  need 
not  recite  those  things  to  you,  yet  I  like  to  do  it. 
My  thoughts,  in  that  wild  dangerous  moment, 
seemed  to  go  in  detail  through  all,  from  the  morning 
that  the  Marquis  Zappi  arrived  with  his  little  son 
at  the  chateau,  through  the  ten  years  of  our  life  to 
gether,  to  my  coming  into  Italy  as  his  secretary — •. 
and  from  that,  by  a  rapid  step,  to  this  castle  prison." 

The  rest  of  the  letter  belongs  to  a  later  part  of  the 
story.  That  little  Pietro  Zappi  should  be  led  into 
the  narrative  by  the  hand  of  his  closest  friend  was 
the  object  for  which  the  letter  was  introduced,  and, 
that  accomplished,  the  course  of  history  bends  back 
to  the  quiet  Valley  Delesmontes  and  the  children 
growing  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  castle  towers. 

The  general,  sitting  in  his  library  the  morning 
after  the  arrival  chronicled  in  the  quoted  letter, 
stared  at  his  old  friend  from  under  his  heavy  brows 
as  if  trying  vigorously  to  convince  himself  of  his 
presence.  The  marquis,  an  Italian  of  North  Italy, 


THE   CROWN   OF   FRIENDSHIP      85 

tall  and  proud  and  quiet,  had  the  air  more  of  a 
student  than  of  a  soldier.  A  little  the  air,  also,  of 
an  invalid,  for  he  stooped  and  walked  languidly, 
and  a  cough  caught  him  at  times.  He  was  talking, 
on  that  morning  in  the  library,  while  the  general 
listened ;  it  was  not  the  usual  order  of  things.  Work 
on  the  book  had  been  given  over;  the  young  secre 
tary  had  been  ordered  out  to  play,  and  outside, 
through  the  open  window,  one  heard  the  children's 
voices  in  shouts  and  laughter.  Alixe  and  Francois 
were  teaching  Pietro  to  ride  Coq.  The  marquis 
turned  his  head  toward  the  window  a  little  as  the 
sounds  of  gaiety  floated  in,  and  smiled  gently,  and 
the  general  frowned  ferociously,  which  meant  the 
same  thing. 

"So  you  see,  Gaspard,"  the  marquis  went  on  in 
his  quiet  reticent  way,  "that  I  have  believed  in  our 
old  friendship.  I  have  taken  for  granted  a  welcome 
for  my  boy — I  could  not  have  done  it  with  another 
man.  The  voyage  to  America  and  my  stay  there 
will  last,  it  may  be  a  year.  I  can  not  take  the  boy 
with  me — he  is  too  young  to  travel  as  I  must.  His 
brother  died  two  years  ago,  his  mother  is  just  dead ; 
he  is  lonely;  I  could  not  leave  him  in  Castelforte 
alone  with  servants.  So  I  thought  of  my  old 
friend  Gaspard  Gourgaud  and  of  what  we  had  suf- 


86  THE    MARSHAL 

f ered  together,  and  how  suffering  binds  people ;  and 
I  thought  of  words  you  said  once,  Gaspard,  that  if 
a  time  should  come  when  I  needed  you,  no  matter 
when  or  how,  you  would  be  ready.  So — though  I 
know  that  men  in  general  forget  and  live  in  the 
present,  and  fret  to  be  recalled  to  dead  friendships — 
yet  I  dared  to  believe  you  were  different.  I  have 
brought  Pietro  to  leave  him  with  you  if  you  will 
have  him,  while  I  go  to  America." 

Nothing  could  have  gone  beyond  the  savageness 
of  the  general's  face  as  his  friend  finished  speaking. 
His  eyes  flashed  fire,  his  eyebrows  gathered  into  a 
line  of  bushy  defiance,  his  mouth  set  grimly;  he  was 
a  living  threat  of  assault  and  battery.  His  voice 
came  with  a  fierce  rumble,  well  suited  to  his  look. 
"If  you  had  not  done  it,  Alessandro,"  he  growled, 
"if  you  had  not  trusted  me,  I — I — !"  and  with  that 
the  thunder-storm  broke  down. 

This  old  officer  of  Napoleon  had,  after  all  his 
battles  and  killings,  the  simplicity  and  the  heart  of 
his  own  little  girl.  But  he  cleared  his  throat  hur 
riedly  with  a  bravado  of  carelessness,  and  before 
the  marquis  could  do  more  than  smile  at  him  wist 
fully,  he  went  on. 

"It  is  all  settled;  there  was  no  need  of  a  word; 
Pietro  is  my  son  till  you  claim  him  from  me,  and 


THE   CROWN    OF    FRIENDSHIP       87 

glad  enough  I  am  to  get  him  for  as  long  as  I  may. 
I  have  a  lien  on  a  very  good  manner  of  boy  already, 
young  Francois  Beaupre,  whom  I  wished  to  adopt, 
but  the  lad  would  not  give  up  his  parents.  And  that 
makes  me  more  eager  for  another.  They  will  play 
better  together  and  work  better  together,  and  they 
will  be  a  good  brace  of  brothers  for  my  Alixe." 

"Your  Alixe,"  the  marquis  spoke  reflectively. 
"She  is  a  charming  person,  that  little  woman  of 
yours." 

Again  the  general  looked  as  if  in  a  terrific  rage. 
"She  is  the  best  thing  that  lives,"  he  announced, 
and  suddenly  smiled.  "Alessandro,  shall  I  tell  you 
what  flashed  into  my  head  before  you  and  Pietro 
had  been  here  an  hour?" 

"What  then?" 

"I  saw  the  children — your  boy  and  my  girl — to 
gether  as  if  lifelong  playmates  over  the  big  books 
in  the  window-seat  there,  and  it  came  to  me  that  it 
would  be  a  joy  to  crown  one's  life  if — later  on — " 
He  stopped  and  gazed  inquiringly  at  the  calm  eyes 
which  met  his. 

"Yes,"  the  marquis  answered  quietly.  "It  would 
be  that — the  crown  of  our  friendship,  if  some  day 
they  might  love  each  other." 

And  with  that  the  general  gave  a  great  shout  of 


88  THE    MARSHAL 

laughter  and  leaned  forward  and  seized  his  friend's 
hand  in  a  bear's  grip. 

"It  is  unbelievable — it  is  heaven — it  is  a  dream 
come  true  that  you  are  here,  Alessandro.  And  here 
we  sit,  after  all  these  years,  we  old  soldiers  of  Na 
poleon,  and  instead  of  talking  of  campaigns  and 
battles,  we  plot  a  marriage  like  grandmothers.  A 
marriage!  Listen  to  those  babies  shouting  outside 
over  the  pony !  Such  thoughts  are  far  enough  from 
them — sapristi!  And  there  is  indeed  plenty  of  time ; 
they  are  only  babies  yet."  His  voice  stopped,  but 
his  eyes  lingered  on  the  face  of  the  other  as  if  he 
could  not  look  enough  to  convince  himself  of  its 
reality.  "Tell  me  about  your  journey,  Alessandro, 
as  you  promised,  and  why  you  should  go  that  un 
heard-of  distance,  to  that  vague,  just  possible  coun 
try,  America,  to  get  land." 

So  the  marquis,  sitting  in  the  French  castle,  with 
the  Jura  Mountains  standing  far  off  as  he  lifted  his 
eyes,  with  the  summer  wind  blowing  in  at  the  win 
dow  and  the  children's  voices  calling  to  each  other 
outside,  told  at  length  a  story  of  negotiations,  of 
business  arrangements,  of  a  tract  of  land  not  yet 
seen  which  was  to  become  one  day  of  vital  impor 
tance  to  those  careless  children  who  played.  He 
told,  what  the  general  partly  knew,  how  many  fol- 


THE   CROWN    OF    FRIENDSHIP       89 

lowers  of  the  Emperor,  including  his  brother  Jerome 
Bonaparte,  had  bought  tracts  of  land  under  that 
new  government,  the  United  States,  and  how  several 
of  them  had  gone  out  to  this  land,  taking  many 
things  with  them  and  looking  to  live  there  as  in 
France  in  seigneurial  dignity.  How,  through  one  of 
the  Bonapartist  emigres  and  through  his  connec 
tions  in  America,  Zappi  had  been  offered  a  chance 
to  buy  five  thousand  acres  in  the  state  of  Virginia ; 
how  he  had  considered  the  condition  of  Italy — that 
it  was  torn  and  worn  with  wars,  that  the  Austrians 
were  gaining  in  power,  that  his  house  was  a  marked 
one  on  the  side  of  Italian  liberty,  and  sure  to  be 
among  the  first  to  be  punished  if  Austrian  power 
were  triumphant;  that  if  such  a  time  came  it  might 
mean  everything  to  him  or  to  his  son  to  have  a  home 
and  a  domain  beyond  the  reach  of  the  tyrant's  hand. 
For  that  reason  he  had  thought  it  wise  to  cross  the 
ocean  and  take  possession  of  this  land;  and  to  do 
this  quickly,  because — the  marquis  stopped  and 
looked  at  the  general,  and  the  general  looked  back 
fiercely. 

"What  then  ?"  the  latter  demanded  savagely.  "It 
is  well,  of  course,  to  do  things  at  once,  when  one 
decides.  But  is  there  any  hurry  in  particular  for 
you,  you  hardened  old  veteran?" 


90  THE    MARSHAL 

The  marquis  smiled  his  gentle  slow  smile.  "A 
little  hurry  for  me,  Gaspard,"  he  answered.  "The 
doctors  tell  me  that  my  heart  is  not  strong;  a  man 
dies  suddenly  of  that  trouble  sometimes." 

And  the  general,  impatient,  indignant,  threw  his 
arm  around  his  friend's  shoulder.  "They  know 
nothing,  doctors,"  he  growled.  "You  will  outlive 
me.  It  is  all  villainy,,  such  talk.  Come,  then,  Ales- 
sandro,  and  see  if  Pietro  can  stick  on  Coq." 


CHAPTER  X 

FOR  ALWAYS 

CLAIRE  listened  with  serious  calm  eyes  as  her 
son  told  his  story  when  he  came  home  on  the 
day  of  the  new  arrival  at  the  castle.  It  was  strange 
to  have  her  boy  the  playmate  of  the  children  of  a 
noble  marquis  and  of  the  seigneur  himself.  A  pang 
came  with  the  thought,  for  it  seemed  to  separate 
the  little  lad  from  her.  But  the  grandmother  had 
said  always,  and  the  mother  believed  it,  that  the 
child  would  not  grow  up  and  live  and  die  placidly 
in  Vieques  as  had  his  ancestors.  There  was  a  wider 
destiny  before  him;  had  not  the  hand  of  Napoleon 
himself  laid  that  destiny  on  his  baby  shoulder?  So, 
like  plenty  of  other  mothers,  Claire  put  down  the 
selfishness  of  a  longing  to  keep  her  own  child,  and 
for  the  child's  sake  walked  a  little  way  with  him 
on  the  road  which  was  to  lead  him  from  her. 

"The  great  gentleman  has  come  who  once  saved 
our  seigneur's  life!"  she  repeated  after  Francois. 

91 


92  THE    MARSHAL 

"And  the  seigneur  is  glad.  Of  course  he  is  glad,  my 
Frangois.  And  you  ought  to  be  glad,  too,  and 
grateful  to  that  gentleman  because  of  all  the  good 
things  our  seigneur  has  clone  for  you  and  which 
would  not  have  happened,  assuredly,  if  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  had  not  saved  him.  You  should  do 
everything  that  is  possible  for  Monsieur  the  Mar 
quis  to  show  your  gratitude." 

Francois  looked  doubtful  and  a  little  depressed. 
"But,  my  mother,  I  can  not  do  anything  for  the 
marquis  that  I  can  think  of.  He  would  not  like  me 
to  bring  him  vegetables,  I  think.  And  Jean  Phil- 
lippe  or  Pierre,  or  else  the  maids  carry  the  water 
for  him;  I  could  not  do  that  as  I  could  for  you. 
There  are  so  many  people  to  do  things  that  he  would 
not  want  me." 

Claire  considered;  this  view  was  true;  yet  she 
wished  her  son  to  feel  his  part  of  the  obligation  to 
the  marquis  and  to  discharge  it.  "It  is  true,  Fran- 
gois.  Yet  there  may  be  something  which  you  can 
do  for  him,  if  it  be  only  to  bring  him  a  book  gladly. 
Moreover,  it  is  this  which  makes  one's  life  happy 
— doing  things  for  others.  Watch  and  be  ready 
to  serve  him  with  a  good  will  when  you  may  be 
cause  of  the  thing  which  he  did  for  our  seigneur. 
Also  be  a  friend  to  the  young  monsieur,  his  son — 


FOR    ALWAYS  93 

you  can  do  that,  for  you  know  well  how  to  play  and 
to  help  other  boys  in  playing." 

Francois  nodded,  and  his  exquisite  smile,  a  smile 
whose  sweetness  and  pathos  and  brilliancy  went 
straight  to  the  hearts  of  people,  lighted  his  small 
face.  "I  will  do  that,  mother.  It  will  please  me  to 
do  that." 

Next  morning  the  little  brown  figure  which 
trudged  through  the  beech  wood  was  brightened  by 
a  large  and  vivid  bouquet  held  in  his  two  hands,  a 
point  of  color  among  the  swinging  shadows,  blos 
soms  from  the  new  garden,  growing  now  as  only 
Claire  knew  how  to  make  things  grow. 

When  the  tap  of  Frangois  at  the  library  door, 
where  one  heard  men's  voices  talking,  had  brought 
the  general's  loud  command  of  "Entrez,"  the  little 
brown  figure  and  the  large  bunch  of  flowers  came 
in  together  and  the  boy  marched  straight  to  the 
stately  Italian.  Snapping  his  heels  together  as  his 
mother  had  taught  him  he  made  a  stiff  deep  bow, 
and  presented  his  nosegay.  The  marquis,  a  little 
astonished  at  this  attention,  received  it  with  grave 
courtesy  but  without  much  cordiality ;  it  seemed  to 
him  rather  an  odd  whim  of  Gourgaud's  to  have  this 
peasant  child  about  as  one  of  his  own  family.  And 
the  gift  of  the  flowers  appeared  possibly  a  bit  pre- 


94  THE    MARSHAL 

sumptuous.  So  that  Francois'  first  effort  at  show 
ing  his  appreciation  of  the  marquis'  heroism  was 
not  altogether  successful. 

But  Frangois  did  not  know  that;  to  him  all  the 
world  was  kindly,  with  different  manners  of  kind 
liness.  The  manner  of  the  marquis  was  graver  than 
other  people's,  perhaps — what  then?  The  kindli 
ness  was  undoubtedly  there  below  the  gravity.  And 
it  was  this  monsieur  who  had  saved  the  life  of  the 
seigneur;  that,  after  all,  was  the  whole  matter. 
Frangois  wasted  little  time  thinking  of  other  peo 
ple's  feeling  toward  himself.  He  was  much  too 
busy  with  a  joyful  wonder  of  his  own  at  the  ever 
new  goodness  of  his  world.  To  the  marquis,  who 
hardly  noticed  him,  he  proceeded  to  constitute  him 
self  a  shadow. 

"We  will  walk  to  the  village  together,  Alessan- 
dro,"  the  general  decided,  of  a  morning,  in  his  sud 
den  way,  and  shouted  forthwith  for  "Moison!  Ho 
there,  Moison !  The  cloak  and  hat  of  monsieur  the 
marquis !" 

But  before  Jean  Phillippe  had  time  to  get  to  the 
door,  the  small  person  in  homespun  had  fled  like  a 
rabbit  and  was  back  loaded  with  paraphernalia.  He 
worked  as  faithfully  as  ever  with  the  general  at  the 
great  book,  what  times  the  general  could  spare  now 


FOR    ALWAYS  95 

to  work,  away  from  his  friend;  he  played  with  his 
might  as  always,  yet  there  were  many  times  when 
lie  would  squat  at  a  distance  behind  the  chair  of  the 
visitor,  motionless,  while  Alixe  and  Pietro  tried 
vainly  to  lure  him  away.  At  the  first  sign  of  a  serv 
ice  to  be  done  for  the  marquis  he  was  up  and  at  it  ; 
always  quicker,  always  more  intelligent  than  the 
footman.  The  marquis  could  not  help  seeing  these 
attentions  and  went  through  two  or  three  stages  of 
feeling  about  it — bored,  irritated,  amused,  flattered. 
The  lad  trotted  at  his  heels  as  unobtrusively  as  a 
small  dog  and  it  was  not  in  the  marquis'  nature — 
a  gentle  nature,  if  proud  and  reserved — to  resist 
such  determined  devotion.  So  the  little  brown 
shadow  made  its  way  finally  into  his  slow  friendli 
ness. 

"You  have  thrown  a  charm  over  my  boy  Fran- 
c,ois,  Alessandro,"  the  general  said,  well  pleased. 
And  the  marquis  answered  thoughtfully: 

"It  is  a  boy  out  of  the  common,  I  believe,  Gas- 
pard.  At  first  I  thought  it  a  mistake  that  you 
should  raise  a  child  of  his  class  to  the  place  you 
have  given  him,  but  I  see  that  you  understand  what 
you  are  about.  He  is  worthy  of  a  good  fate." 

"I  believe  he  is  worthy  of  any  fate,"  the  general 
said,  "and  I  believe  he  will  make  his  fate  if  he  has 


96  THE    MARSHAL 

a  chance,  a  good  one — perhaps  a  great  one.  He 
has  uncommon  stuff  in  him.  I  mean  to  give  him 
his  chance."  And  with  that  there  was  a  conversa 
tion  as  to  boys  between  the  two  friends. 

The  day  came,  after  two  months  of  such  renewals 
of  friendship  when,  on  the  next  morning,  the  Mar 
quis  Zappi  was  due  to  start  on  his  long  journey  to 
America.  Out  on  the  lawn,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
beech  trees  he  sat  and  watched  his  son  playing  ball 
with  little  Alixe.  Then  he  was  aware  of  Francois 
standing  before  him.  The  boy  held  something  in 
his  closed  hand,  and  with  that  he  opened  his  fingers 
and  stretched  it  to  the  marquis.  The  marquis  looked 
inquiringly  at  the  yellow  metal. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked;  he  was  prepared  now 
to  be  surprised  by  this  boy  about  once  in  so  often, 
so  he  simply  suspended  judgment  at  a  thing  unex 
pected. 

"It  is  for  you,  Monsieur  the  Marquis."  Fran- 
gois  smiled  radiantly  and  continued  to  present  the 
ten-franc  piece. 

The  marquis,  astounded,  drew  back  with  a  shock 
of  indignation.  Was  this  peasant  child  offering 
him  money?  Francois  went  on  happily,  convinced 
that  he  was  doing  something  worth  while. 

"But  you  may  take  it,  Monsieur  the  Marquis;  it 


FOR   ALWAYS  97 

is  indeed  for  you.  It  is  my  own ;  the  seigneur  gave 
it  to  me  on  my  birthday,  and  my  father  did  not  put 
it  with  the  savings,  but  said  it  was  to  be  mine  to 
do  with  as  I  chose.  I  choose  to  give  it  to  you,  Mon 
sieur  the  Marquis.  So  that  you  may  have  plenty  of 
money--!  know  well  what  it  is  not  to  have  enough 
money.  It  is  a  bad  thing.  And  it  is  convenient 
when  on  a  journey — money."  He  nodded  his  head, 
as  man  to  man.  "So,  as  it  is  mine,  I  give  this  to 
you." 

The  brown  fist  was  outstretched,  the  gold  piece 
glittering  in  it,  and  still  the  marquis  stared  speech 
less.  Never  in  his  life  had  any  one  presumed  to 
offer  him  money.  He  looked  up  at  the  face  of  the 
little  peasant;  it  shone  with  peace  and  good  will; 
he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  the  gold  piece  and 
looked  at  it  a  long  minute,  and  drew  a  leather  case 
from  his  pocket  and  placed  it  within  carefully,  and 
put  it  away. 

"Thank  you,  Frangois,"  said  the  marquis.  And 
then  he  considered  again  the  shining  little  face. 
"Why  have  you  done  this,  Francois?"  he  asked. 
"Why  do  you  always — do  so  much  for  me?" 

"Monsieur  the  Marquis,"  Francois  spoke  eagerly, 
"it  is  not  much  I  have  done  before,  only  little 
things.  This,  I  know  it,  is  much,  for  it  is  a  large 


98  THE    MARSHAL 

sum  of  money  and  may  be  a  great  help  to  you.  I 
am  glad  of  that,  Monsieur  the  Marquis."  By  now 
Francois  was  squatting  cross-legged  at  the  feet  of 
the  marquis.  "I  do  it  because  you  did  that  thing." 

Then  the  marquis  was  entirely  bewildered.  "Did 
that  thing?  What  do  you  mean,  Francois?" 

"That  thing  in  Russia,  for  my  seigneur.  When 
you  saved  the  life  of  my  seigneur." 

"Oh,"  said  the  marquis  and  stared  down  at  the 
boy  anxiously  explaining. 

"I  have  been  afraid  that  I  could  never  show  you 
how  I  thanked  you  for  the  life  of  my  seigneur.  I 
am  sorry  that  my  seigneur  sabered  you  afterward, 
but  that  was  a  mistake.  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  you 
understand  that  it  was  a  mistake  ?" 

"Quite,"  said  Monsieur  the  Marquis. 

"You  have  forgiven  my  seigneur?"  Frangois  de 
manded. 

"There  was  nothing  to  forgive,  Frangois.  It 
was,  as  you  point  out,  a  mistake." 

"Yes,  Monsieur  the  Marquis."  The  heels  of 
Francois  came  down  on  the  sod  with  a  whack  of 
satisfaction  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  "So  it  is  all 
arranged.  Only  that  even  the  gold  is  not  enough. 
But  I  will  do  more.  I  will  be  a  friend  of  Pietro. 
That  will  please  you,  will  it  not?" 


FOR    ALWAYS  99 

The  marquis  was  silent.  "But  I  know  that.  It 
is  a  good  thing  to  be  friends — with  me.  Any  boy 
in  the  village  of  Vieques  would  be  glad  to  be  my 
friend,  you  know,  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  So  it 
will  be  a  good  thing  for  Pietro.  He  is  six  months 
younger  than  I;  I  can  teach  him  how  to  climb  and 
how  to  fight  and  how  to  take  care  of  himself.  And 
I  will,  because  of  that  thing  you  did.  Because,  too, 
I  think  well  of  Pietro  and  besides  because  of  your 
kindness  to  me." 

"My  kindness  to  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  the  Marquis — because  you  have 
been  so  kind  to  me." 

And  the  marquis,  in  the  silence  of  his  soul,  was 
ashamed. 

The  next  day  he  went.  As  they  stood,  gathered 
in  the  big  carved  doorway,  he  told  them  all  good-by 
and  lifted  his  boy  and  held  him  without  a  word.  As 
he  set  him  down  he  turned  toward  the  carriage,  but 
in  a  flash  he  turned  back  as  if  by  a  sudden  inspira 
tion,  and  laid  a  hand  on  little  Francois'  shoulder. 

"You  will  remember  that  you  promised  to  be  a 
friend  to  Pietro,  Francois?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  the  Marquis,"  the  child  answered 
gravely. 

The  marquis  caught  Pietro's  hand  and  put  it  into 


ioo  THE    MARSHAL 

Frangois'  and  held  the  two  little  hands  clasped  so 
together  in  his  own.     "Always?"  he  demanded. 

"Always,"  Francois  repeated  quietly,  and  those 
who  heard  the  word  spoken  believed  it. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   CASTLE   CHILDREN 

IMPERCEPTIBLY  to  the  child,  the  life  of 
Francois  swept  into  a  changing  channel.  More 
and  more  he  belonged  to  the  general,  the  castle; 
less  and  less,  though  he  still  lived  with  them  and 
was  faithful  to  them,  did  he  belong  to  his  father 
and  mother  and  the  village  life.  After  a  few  months 
an  event  came  which  separated  him  from  the  old 
order  sharply. 

There  was  a  farm  in  the  Valley  Delesmontes 
— five  miles  it  was  from  Vieques — which  was  a  de 
pendence  of  the  seigneury;  for  centuries  the  same 
family  had  held  it,  and  it  was  considered  the  richest 
holding  for  a  peasant  in  that  part  of  the  world.  Just 
now  the  family  all  at  once  came  to  an  end.  It  was 
necessary  to  find  new  tenants,  and  the  general  of 
fered  the  place  to  Le  Franqois  and  La  Claire.  Even 
in  their  best  days  they  had  not  been  so  prosperous  as 
this  would  make  them.  It  was  a  large  farm  of  four 

101 


102  THE    MARSHAL 

hundred  acres,  with  a  big  house,  with  gardens  and 
farm  buildings  and  many  horses  and  cattle — a  rich 
great  place  for  them  and  for  their  children.  There 
could  be  no  question  as  to  accepting  the  offer.  They 
could  have  their  family  together  once  more  and 
give  them  advantages  beyond  what  had  ever  been 
planned;  it  was  a  new  start  in  life.  And  Le  Fran- 
gois,  having  learned  his  lesson  so  bitterly,  could  be 
trusted  now  to  make  the  most  of  it.  It  was  almost 
a  miracle  to  happen  in  old,  quiet,  little  Vieques, 
where  changes  came  mostly  by  slow  years,  not  often 
by  thunderclaps.  Yet  beautiful  as  it  was,  there 
were  drawbacks.  One  must  leave  one's  village 
where  one's  self  and  the  grandfathers  and  the  great 
grandfathers  and  before  that  others,  had  been  born 
and  buried;  one  must  leave  one's  old  house  down 
the  street  there,  and  the  dream  of  buying  it  back, 
which  had  kept  despair  out  of  these  months  of  pov 
erty;  moreover,  what  about  Francois? 

La  Claire  and  Le  Francois,  sitting  stiffly  on  the 
fine  chairs  in  the  general's  library,  where  they  had 
been  brought  to  hear  the  great  news,  asked  that 
question  suddenly  in  a  breath.  The  general  glow 
ered  at  them  from  deep  eyes. 

"There  is  the  screw."  He  fired  the  words  at 
them  like  hot  shot  and  La  Claire  shrank  a  little. 


THE    CASTLE    CHILDREN  103 

"There's  always  a  screw  somewhere  in  every  good 
thing.  This  time  it's  the  boy." 

There  was  a  silence.  Claire  trembled.  "The  boy 
is  your  boy,"  the  seigneur  of  the  castle  went  on, 
quietly  enough,  and  then  in  a  flash  brought  his  fist 
down  on  the  table  with  a  roar.  "But,  by  heaven, 
he's  my  boy,  too,  now.  He's  a  miracle  of  a  boy  and 
I  love  him  like  a  son  and  I  want  to  give  him  such 
a  chance  in  life  as  I  would  have  given  had  he  been 
born  my  son.  Are  you  going  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  that?" 

Like  bullets  the  words  struck  La  Claire;  she  saw 
the  way  they  led,  and  she  rebelled  at  fate.  It  was 
cruel,  now  when  they  were  able  again  to  do  all  for 
the  child  which  they  had  planned,  to  take  the  child 
away;  yet  that  very  ability  to  do  for  him  was  the 
gift  of  the  man  who  wanted  him.  What  could  she 
say? 

"It  will  go  hard  with  the  lad  to  give  us  up,"  she 
brought  out  softly. 

"He  won't  give  you  up ;  I  should  not  respect  him 
if  he  gave  you  up,"  the  general  thundered,  and  the 
two  peasants  breathed  more  freely.  This  great 
good  fortune  was  not,  after  all,  the  price  of  their 
son. 

By  degrees  the  three  came  to  an  understanding. 


104  THE    MARSHAL 

And  the  peasant  parents,  seeing  how  the  general,  as 
he  had  said,  did  indeed  love  their  boy;  seeing  also 
that  he  had  a  power  beyond  theirs  to  develop  him; 
seeing  that  advantages  and  a  career  were  waiting 
for  little  Francois  if  their  love  for  him  should  be 
unselfish ;  seeing  these  things,  the  father  and  mother 
agreed  to  the  general's  plan.  A  tutor  was  to  be  en 
gaged  for  the  three  children;  Frangois  was  to  live 
at  the  castle  as  if — it  should  be  explained  to  him — 
he  were  going  away  to  school,  and  every  Friday  he 
was  to  walk  to  the  Ferme  du  Val — the  Valley  Farm 
— and  stay  with  his  people  until  Sunday  afternoon. 
So,  without  realizing  the  change,  the  boy  who 
had  been  the  child  of  a  peasant  cabin  became  the 
child  of  the  castle,  and  while  entirely  loyal  to  the 
home  he  still  held  to  be  his  own,  he  learned  ways 
of  living  and  breathed  in  ideas  which  could  not 
have  come  to  him  at  the  farm.  The  Fridays  were 
eagerly  looked  forward  to,  and  it  was  excitement 
and  rapture  to  see  and  share  in  the  new  prosperity 
— the  large  stone  house  of  a  story  and  a  half, 
roofed  with  immense  oak  shingles  richly  dark  with 
age ;  the  farm  buildings  clustered  about  it,  connected 
with  stone  walls  forming  a  large  court;  the  big 
granary,  standing  aside  on  a  hill  slope ;  and  the  mul 
titude  of  live  stock — the  seventy  cows,  the  eight 


THE   CASTLE    CHILDREN  105 

heavy  work  horses  of  the  country,  the  six  horses 
which  pertained  to  the  farmer  for  driving  and  rid 
ing,  and  the  two  pairs  of  mild-eyed  oxen,  used  for 
breaking  the  earth.  The  father  and  mother  reigned 
busily  and  happily  over  all  this  plenty,  and  all  the 
brothers  and  sisters  were  together  once  more  around 
them  and  the  white-capped  grandmother  smiled  a 
benediction  from  her  big  chintz  chair.  Such  a 
greeting  as  Francois,  her  especial  boy,  got  from  the 
grandmother  on  a  Friday  evening  after  his  long 
walk! 

This  new  order  of  things  was  well  settled  before 
six  months  had  passed  after  the  going  of  the  Mar 
quis  Zappi.  Francois  was  not  now  allowed  to  fill 
the  place  of  secretary  except  in  an  incidental  way. 
The  new  tutor,  a  serious  young  man  whom  the  chil 
dren  astonished  and  worried,  copied  the  pages  of 
the  history  of  the  Emperor.  It  was  thought  impor 
tant  now  that  Francois  should  work  at  his  studies. 
There  was  a  rumor  already  that  he  and  Pietro  might 
go  together,  perhaps,  in  a  year  more,  to  a  military 
school — in  fact,  to  Saint-Cyr  itself  if  the  marquis 
thought  well  of  the  place  when  he  came  home.  And 
then  in  three  or  four  months  more  something  hap 
pened. 

Francois  was  alone  with  the  general  when  the 


io6  THE    MARSHAL 

letter  came;  Marcelle,  the  younger  footman,  had 
been  sent  to  the  mayor's  in  the  village  for  the  mail, 
which  came  by  post  to  Delesmontes  and  was  brought 
on  by  foot  messengers  to  Vieques,  to  the  mayor, 
who  distributed  it.  Francois'  eyes  were  on  his 
seigneur's  face  as  he  read  the  letter  and  the  boy 
saw  the  blood  rush  through  the  weather-hardened 
skin  in  a  brown-red  flood,  and  then  fade  out,  leav 
ing  it  gray.  The  boy  had  never  seen  the  general 
look  so.  With  that,  the  big  arms  were  thrown  out 
on  the  table  and  the  big  grizzled  head  fell  into 
them.  That  cut  to  Francois'  soul — his  seigneur 
was  in  trouble.  And  before  he  knew  it  his  childish 
arm  was  around  the  big  neck  and  his  cheek  against 
the  seigneur's.  And  the  seigneur  put  up  his  hand 
and  pressed  the  little  face  closer.  For  long  minutes 
not  a  word  was  said  and  then  the  general's  deep 
voice  spoke,  more  gently  than  Francois  had  ever 
heard  it. 

"It  is  a  good  thing  to  have  a  son,  my  Francois," 
he  said. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  told  the  boy  how  the 
friend  whom  he  had  found  lately,  after  so  many 
years  of  separation,  had  gone  away  not  to  come  back 
in  this  life,  and  how  Pietro  was  fatherless.  Fran- 
gois,  holding  tightly  with  both  fists  to  the  general's 


THE   CASTLE   CHILDREN  107 

hand,  listened  wide-eyed,  struck  to  the  heart.  It 
was  the  first  time  death  had  come  near,  and  the  face 
of  it  was  grim.  Yet  instantly  he  rallied,  because  he 
felt  that  his  seigneur  needed  him. 

"But  he  had  a  brave  life,  my  seigneur — it  is  the 
best  thing  that  there  is.  My  mother  said  so.  My 
mother  told  me  that  we  shall  smile  later,  when  we 
are  with  the  good  God,  to  think  that  we  ever 
feared  death  on  this  earth.  For  she  says  one  spends 
a  long  time  with  the  good  God  later,  and  all  one's 
dear  friends  come,  and  it  is  pleasant  and  it  is  for 
a  long,  long  time,  while  here  it  is,  after  all,  quite 
short.  Is  not  that  true,  my  seigneur?  My  mother 
said  it." 

But  all  the  general  answered  was  to  pat  his  head 
and  say  once  more,  "It  is  a  good  thing  to  have  a  son, 
my  Francois." 

Big  little  Pietro  had  to  be  told  what  had  hap 
pened  and  how  the  general  was  now  to  be  a  father 
to  him  as  best  he  might,  and  Alixe  and  Francois 
would  be  his  sister  and  brother.  He  took  the  blow 
dumbly  and  went  about  his  studies  next  morning, 
but  for  many  days  he  could  not  play,  and  only  Fran- 
<;ois  could  make  him  speak.  He  clung  to  the  other 
boy,  and  seemed  to  find  his  best  comfort  in  the 
friendship  which  it  had  been  his  father's  parting 


io8  THE    MARSHAL 

inspiration  to  assure  for  him.  He  was  handsome — 
extraordinarily  handsome — and  a  lovable  good 
child,  but  slow  in  initiative  where  Frangois  was 
ready,  shy  where  Frangois  was  friends  with  all  the 
world,  steady-going  where  the  peasant  boy  was  bril 
liant.  Between  the  two,  of  such  contrasting  types, 
was  an  unspoken  bond  from  the  first,  and  at  this 
age  it  seemed  to  be  the  little  peasant  who  had  every 
thing  to  give.  Smaller  physically,  weaker  in  muscle 
than  the  big-boned  son  of  North  Italy,  he  yet  took 
quite  naturally  an  attitude  of  protection  and  guid 
ance,  and  Pietro  accepted  it  without  hesitation. 
There  was  no  jealousy  between  them.  Francois 
taught  the  other,  who  had  grown  up  petted  but  un 
trained  in  the  lonely  castle  of  his  ancestors,  all  that 
he  knew  of  boyish  skill  and  strength,  and  was  en 
chanted  when  his  pupil  went  beyond  him,  as  hap 
pened  where  brute  force  counted.  Yet  Frangois 
was  the  acknowledged  leader. 

"Father,"  Alixe  complained,  "Pietro  will  not  try 
to  knock  Frangois  down.  Pietro  is  big,  yet  it  is 
always  Francois  who  comes  up  behind  him  and 
throws  him  on  the  grass,  and  Pietro  only  smiles  and 
gets  up.  Make  Pietro  be  brave  and  quick  as  Fran 
gois  is,  father." 

"Either  of  my  boys  is  brave  enough  for  you,  who 


THE    CASTLE    CHILDREN  109 

are  only  a  girl,"  the  general  growled,  and  put  an 
arm  around  her  and  kissed  her  brown  head. 

And  Alixe  pushed  away  haughtily.  "That  is  not 
a  way  to  talk  before  boys.  They  might  not  under 
stand  how  a  girl  is  worth  six  boys,  and  it  is  you  who 
said  it.  Besides,  I  can  ride,  can  I  not,  father?  No 
body  has  jumped  Coq  over  the  hedge  by  the  far 
field  but  just  me — Alixe."  And  the  boys  nodded 
their  dark  heads  and  agreed,  and  Pietro  added : 

"She  can  run  faster  than  I,  though  my  legs  are 
so  long."  And  he  smiled  at  her  in  his  sleepy  fash 
ion,  honest,  admiring,  shy. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  two  years  or 
more,  and  the  three  studied  together  under  the  tutor, 
and  rode  Coq  in  the  park,  and  sometimes  went  to 
gether  of  a  Friday  afternoon  to  the  Valley  Farm 
and  spent  a  two-days  there  never  to  be  forgotten. 
They  were  royal  guests  to  Le  Francois  and  La 
Claire,  and  the  wholesome  simple  things  done  to 
amuse  them  were  endless;  the  farm  was  theirs  to 
play  with  for  that  week-end.  First,  on  coming, 
there  was  a  fine  lunch ;  gigot — a  leg  of  lamb — which 
one  gave  to  princes,  with  salad  and  bread  and 
wine  and  much  besides.  The  grandmother  told 
them  stories,  the  father  took  them  driving  on  hay 
wagons;  the  mother  showed  them  how  to  milk,  to 


no  THE    MARSHAL 

shell  peas  and  other  occult  accomplishments.  The 
children  were  ready  to  drop  everything  and  do  any 
thing  with  them  at  any  moment.  It  was  like  a  glori 
fied  doll's  house  built  for  the  little  visitors.  And 
according  to  the  season  they  gathered  fruits — rasp 
berries,  apples,  whatever  grew.  The  Ferme  du  Val 
was  a  fairy-land  of  pleasure. 

Also  the  chateau  at  Vieques  with  three  children 
in  it  was  no  convent.  That  good  boy  Francois  was 
forever  in  mischief.  For  instance,  there  was  the 
winter's  day  when  he  got  the  general  into  difficulty 
with  the  church  by  brutally  snowballing  the  bishop. 

"I  thought  it  was  Marcelle,"  Frangois  explained 
penitently.  "He  pranced  just  as  Marcelle  prances. 
And  I  was  hiding  behind  the  door  with  my  ammu 
nition — fifteen  snowballs,  my  Seigneur — big  hard 
ones.  It  was  twilight,  so  I  could  not  see  plainly.  I 
fired  straight,  my  Seigneur.  I  gave  him  one  in  the 
neck.  And  one  on  the  head,  and  two  in  the  back, 
and  one  or  two  in  the  stomach  when  he  turned.  I 
only  missed  once.  And  also  when  he  turned  howl 
ing,  with  his  hands  out,  I  sent  one  into  his  mouth 
before  I  saw.  It  is  too  bad  it  was  the  bishop,  my 
Seigneur;  but  why  didn't  he  fight  back?" 

And  the  seigneur,  scolding  ferociously,  had  a.-- 
gleam  in  his  eye  which  lessened  Frangois'  sense  of 


THE   CASTLE   CHILDREN  in 

wrong-doing.  There  was  also  an  occasion  when, 
hearing  the  general  give  a  long  order  to  Marcelle 
for  the  stable,  Francois  went  out  hurriedly  with  a 
stout  cord  and  fastened  it  where  Marcelle  must  go. 
And  Marcelle,  the  prancer,  caught  his  foot  and  en 
tered  the  stable  door  like  a  comet  and  fell  on  Jules, 
the  groom,  in  his  orbit — on  Jules  carrying  a  bucket 
of  water;  and  Jules  and  the  water  and  Marcelle 
ricochetted  in  a  thousand-legged  tangle  into  Coq's 
stall ;  where  Coq,  being  angry,  let  forth  a  neigh  and 
a  kick  together,  one  of  which  broke  the  innocent 
Jules'  arm.  So  that  Francois,  stating  the  case  to 
the  general,  was  condemned  to  do  the  groom's  work 
till  the  arm  was  cured.  The  days  were  not  monot 
onous  at  the  chateau  of  Vieques.  They  were  not  all 
work  and  no  play  to  the  three  very  human  children 
living  there. 

So  with  work  and  play  life  rolled  rapidly,  and 
suddenly  life  was  all  changed.  A  governess  was 
coming  for  Alixe,  and  Frangois  and  Pietro  were 
going  away  to  the  great  military  school  of  Saint- 
Cyr,  near  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   STRANGE   BOY 

TWO  years  slid  past  noiselessly,  unnoticed,  and 
it  was  vacation  time;  it  was  August  of  the 
year  1824.  The  Valley  of  the  Jura  was  all  afloat 
on  a  sea  of  scarlet  poppies.  They  grew  higher  than 
the  corn,  and  the  wind  tossed  the  waves  of  them 
against  the  sunlight,  and  the  sea  of  them  glittered 
silver,  pricked  with  a  million  gold-red  points;  then 
the  wind  tossed  the  thousand,  thousand  waves  back 
toward  the  sun,  and  the  land-sea  was  shadowy, 
streaked  with  flame  unendingly.  The  little  river — 
the  Cheulte — rushed  down  between  the  fields  of  gold 
and  scarlet  in  its  immortal  hurry,  murmuring  over 
the  stones.  The  old  chateau  of  Vieques — the  ruin 
— lay  back  behind  the  corn  fields  and  smiled  in  hot 
sunlight  at  the  two  thousandth  ocean  of  color  which 
had  washed  the  land  up  to  its  crumbling  walls,  since 
the  Roman  governor  piled  the  old  gray  stones. 

A   tall   lad   of    fourteen,    another   boy,    slighter, 
quicker,  darker,  and  a  little  girl  of  eleven  in  a  short 

112 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  113 

white  dress,  wandered  through  the  ruins,  talking 
earnestly  now,  silent  now,  filling  the  grim  place  with 
easy  laughter  again.  Alixe  and  Francois  and  Pietro 
were  growing  up;  the  general  already  grumbled 
words  about  kittens  turning  into  cats,  as  he  looked 
at  them.  Yet  the  general  was  satisfied  in  his  soul 
with  each  one,  at  whatever  age,  and  glad  of  each 
day  more  of  this  long  unconscious  childhood  in 
which  they  held  to  one  another  as  closely  and 
frankly  as  if  they  were  real  sister  and  brothers. 

To-day  was  the  first  complete  day  of  the  vaca 
tion;  for  till  now  Francois  had  been  at  the  farm, 
working  hard  with  his  father  at  the  harvesting. 
This  morning  he  had  come  over  to  spend  a  week  at 
the  chateau.  And  without  arrangement,  only  be 
cause  it  was  their  oldest  and  most  fascinating  play 
ground,  they  had  strolled  along  the  steep  hillside, 
into  the  road  that  led  to  the  pastures  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  and  then  to  the  gate,  barring  out 
wagons  and  cattle,  the  gate  of  the  fence  which  en 
closed  the  old  chateau. 

The  grass  was  green  on  the  high  mound  under 
which  lay  heaped  the  stones  of  the  Roman  tower,  it 
was  long,  and  waved  in  the  breeze;  the  ugliness  of 
the  barbarism  and  cruelty  of  those  days  lay  so 
buried;  on  the  right  were  the  granaries  where  the 


ii4  THE    MARSHAL 

wicked  governor  had  stored  the  grain  wrung  from 
the  country  people;  over  the  steep  wall  to  the  left 
was  the  opening  to  the  corridor  which  led,  as  all 
the  world  of  Vieques  had  known  for  centuries,  to 
the  treasure-house;  it  was  there  that  the  phantom, 
the  great  dog,  appeared.  The  children  told  the  old 
story  to  one  another;  they  rebuilt  as  they  talked,  in 
the  peace  of  the  summer  afternoon,  the  old  war 
castle ;  they  raised  its  long  walls  and  placed  its  nar 
row  windows  and  machicolated  its  roofs — in  the 
young  minds  a  dream  of  the  old  place  rose  complete 
under  the  new  chestnut  trees  of  only  two  or  three 
hundred  years'  standing. 

"Just  behind  the  great  stone  there,"  Alixe  formu 
lated,  "was  the  dog's  bedroom.  Of  course,  a  great 
monsieur  like  the  dog  had  his  own  bedroom — yes, 
and  office,  too — and  maybe  his  dining-room." 

And  the  joke  was  enough  on  that  lazy  day  of  va 
cation  to  set  peals  of  light  laughter  ringing  through 
the  ruins.  Alixe  stopped  laughing  suddenly. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  demanded.  Her  eyes  were 
lifted  to  the  hill  rising  behind  the  green  mound,  and 
the  glance  of  the  others  followed  hers.  A  young 
man,  a  boy,  was  coming  lightly  down  the  slope,  and 
something  in  his  figure  and  movement  made  it  im 
possible  even  at  a  distance  that  it  should  be  any  one 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  115 

of  the  village.  Strangers  were  not  common  in  quiet 
Vieques,  and  why  should  a  stranger  be  coming  over 
the  mountain?  The  children  were  silent  as  they 
watched  the  figure  drawing  closer;  it  seemed  as  if  an 
event  of  importance  was  about  to  happen.  Rapidly 
the  boy  sprang  down  the  mountainside;  they  could 
see  him  plainly  now ;  he  was  two  or  three  years  older 
than  the  boys  of  the  chateau;  he  was  short,  slender, 
compact,  with  a  thin  aquiline  face,  with  something 
about  him  which  the  country-bred  children  did  not 
understand  to  be  that  subtle  quality,  presence.  He 
saw  them,  and  came  forward,  and  his  cap  was  off 
quickly  as  he  glanced  at  Alixe.  But  with  a  keen  look 
at  the  three,  it  was  Francois  to  whom  he  spoke. 

"Is  this  France  ?"  he  asked. 

"But  yes,  Monsieur,"  Francois  answered  wonder 
ing — and  in  a  moment  he  wondered  more.  The 
strange  boy,  his  cap  flung  from  him,  dropped  on  his 
knees  and  kissed  the  grass  that  grew  over  the  Ro 
man  governor's  foundations.  With  that  he  was 
standing  again,  looking  at  them  unashamed  from  his 
quiet  gray  eyes. 

"It  is  the  first  time  I  have  touched  the  soil  of 
France  since  I  was  seven  years  old,"  he  stated,  not 
as  if  to  excuse  his  act,  but  as  if  explaining  some 
thing  historical.  And  was  silent. 


ii6  THE    MARSHAL 

The  children,  going  over  this  day's  event  many 
times  after,  could  never  remember  how  it  happened 
that  they  had  talked  so  much.  The  strange  boy 
talked  very  little;  they  could  not  recollect  that  he 
asked  questions,  after  his  first  startling  question; 
yet  here  was  Alixe,  the  very  spirited  and  proud  little 
Alixe,  anxious  to  make  him  understand  everything 
of  their  own  affairs. 

"I  am  Alixe,"  she  began — and  stopped  short, 
seized  with  shyness.  Was  it  courtesy  to  explain  to 
the  young  monsieur  about  her  distinguished  father? 
Or  was  it  bragging?  She  found  herself  suddenly 
in  an  agony  of  confusion,  for  all  of  them  were 
laughing  their  quick  young  laughter  at  her  brief 
statement.  Then  the  stranger  made  a  low  bow  and 
spoke  in  the  gentlest  friendly  tones. 

"It  is  enough.  It  is  a  charming  name,  Mademoi 
selle  Alixe.  I  believe  I  shall  now  think  it  the  most 
charming  name  in  France." 

And  Alixe,  blushing  furiously,  yet  felt  a  satisfac 
tory  conviction  that  she  had  not  been  at  all  stupid. 

"She  has  more  of  a  name  than  that,  however, 
Monsieur,"  and  Frangois  stepped  across  the  grass 
and  stood  by  the  little  girl,  her  knight,  unconscious 
of  the  part  he  played.  "It  is  a  very  grand  name, 
the  other  one.  For  our  seigneur,  the  father  of 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  117 

Alixe,  is  Monsieur  the  Baron  Gaspard  Gourgaud,  a 
general  of  Napoleon  himself;  he  was  indeed  with 
the  Emperor  at  St.  Helena." 

Francois  had  no  false  modesty,  no  self-conscious 
ness;  he  felt  that  he  had  placed  Alixe's  standing 
now  in  the  best  light  possible.  The  strange  boy  felt 
it,  too,  it  seemed,  for  he  started  as  Frangois  spoke 
of  Napoleon;  his  reserved  face  brightened  and  his 
cap  was  off  and  sweeping  low  as  he  bowed  again 
to  Alixe  more  deeply.  Frangois  was  delighted.  It 
was  in  him  to  enjoy  dramatic  effect,  as  it  is  in  most 
Frenchmen.  He  faced  about  to  Pietro. 

"This  one,  Monsieur,"  he  went  on,  much  taken 
with  himself  as  master  of  ceremonies,  "is  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  Zappi  of  Italy.  His  father  also  fought 
for  the  great  captain." 

The  quiet  strange  boy  interrupted  swiftly.  "I 
know,"  he  said.  "Of  the  Italian  corps  under  Prince 
Eugene;  also  on  the  staff  of  Lannes.  I  know  the 
name  well,"  and  he  had  Pietro's  hand  in  a  firm 
grasp  and  was  looking  into  the  lad's  embarrassed 
face  with  his  dreamy  keen  eyes. 

The  children,  surprised,  were  yet  too  young  to 
wonder  much  that  a  boy  scarcely  older  than  them 
selves  should  have  the  army  of  Napoleon  at  his 
fingers'  ends ;  he  gave  them  no  time  to  think  about  it 


ii8  THE    MARSHAL 

"One  sees,  without  the  names,  that  you  are  of  the 
noblesse,"  he  said  simply,  embracing  the  three  in 
his  sleepy  glance.  He  turned  to  Frangois.  "And 
you,  Monsieur  the  spokesman?  You  are  also  of  a 
great  Bonapartist  house  ?" 

Francois  stood  straight  and  slim;  his  well-knit 
young  body  in  his  military  dress  was  carried  with 
all  the  assurance  of  an  aristocrat.  He  smiled  his 
brilliant  exquisite  smile  into  the  older  boy's  face. 

"Me — I  am  a  peasant,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "I 
have  no  house."  Then  into  the  silence  that  fell  he 
spoke  simply.  "There  are  no  officers  of  my  fam 
ily,  no  battles  where  my  name  was  known."  The 
controlled  glance  of  the  stranger  rested  on  him 
attentively.  With  that  the  look  of  Frangois  changed 
in  a  flash ;  his  eyes  blazed  as  he  threw  out  both  hands 
in  a  strong  gesture.  "It  makes  no  difference,"  he 
cried.  "My  life  was  consecrated  from  its  start  to 
the  service  of  the  house  of  Bonaparte.  It  will 
count;  I  live  because  I  believe  that.  I  know  surely 
that  I  shall  yet  do  a  thing  worth  while  for  a  Bona 
parte." 

A  curious  vivid  glance  shot  at  the  excited  boy 
from  under  the  drooping  lids  of  the  newcomer. 
"Monsieur,"  he  said  quietly,  "I — "  But  no  one 
had  time  to  hear  the  rest.  Because  Alixe  had  sud- 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  119 

denly  thrown  her  arm  about  Francois'  neck,  and 
was  crying  out  impetuous  words. 

"He  is  a  peasant — yes.  But  he  is  also  our  brother, 
Pietro's  and  mine,  and  no  prince  is  better  than 
Francois — not  one." 

"Or  half  so  good,"  Pietro  put  in  with  his  slow 
tones. 

"You  are  likely  right,"  the  stranger  agreed  la 
conically. 

And  then  without  questions  asked,  in  rapid  eager 
sentences,  the  three  had  told  him  how  it  was;  how 
Francois,  refusing  to  leave  the  cottage,  was  yet 
the  son  of  the  castle;  how  Pietro  had  come  and  had 
stayed,  how  the  boys  were  at  school  together;  how 
in  the  vacations  they  were  still  sister  and  brothers, 
whether  at  the  castle  or  the  farm ;  all  this  and  much 
more  the  three  poured  out  to  the  silent  lad  who  lis 
tened,  who  seemed  to  say  almost  nothing,  yet  man 
aged  to  make  them  feel  at  every  moment  that  he 
cared  to  hear  what  they  said.  With  that  they  were 
talking  about  the  village  of  Vieques,  and  its  an 
tiquity,  and  then  of  the  old  chateau;  and  one  told 
the  legend  of  the  treasure  and  of  the  guardian  dog. 

"Just  over  the  wall  there  is  the  opening  where 
he  appeared  to  old  Pierre  Tremblay,"  Francois 
pointed  out.  "And  Pierre  was  half-witted  ever 


120  iTHE    MARSHAL 

after.     I  know,  for  I  have  seen  him  myself.     He 
mumbled." 

"That  is  interesting."  The  stranger  spoke  with 
more  animation  than  he  had  shown  before — he  was, 
after  all,  for  all  of  his  reserve,  a  boy.  "I  should 
like  an  interview  with  that  dog.  I  must  at  least  see 
his  kennel.  Over  that  wall?  I  will  climb  the  wall." 

"But  no,"  Francois  put  in  quickly.  "It  is  unsafe 
these  last  five  years.  I  have  climbed  it,  but  not  in 
these  last  years.  You  can  go  around  and  get  in  by 
another  way  and  see  the  hole  of  the  dog." 

The  older  boy's  eyes  narrowed.  "I  think  I  should 
prefer  to  climb  the  wall,"  he  said. 

Alixe  spoke.  "If  Francois  can  not  go  it  is  im 
possible.  He  is  the  best  climber  of  all  the  country, 
are  you  not  then,  Francois?" 

"Yes,"  said  Francois. 

And  Pietro  echoed.  "But  yes.  All  the  world 
knows  it." 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  climb  the  wall,"  the 
stranger  repeated  gently. 

And  he  did.  The  others  watching  anxiously,  he 
crawled  out  on  the  uncertain  pile  ten  feet  in  air.  A 
big  stone  crashed  behind  him ;  he  crawled  on.  Then, 
"I  see  it,"  he  cried,  and  waved  a  triumphant  hand, 
and  with  that  there  was  a  hoarse  rumble  of  loosened 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  121 

masonry,  and  down  came  the  great  blocks  close  to 
his  hands — he  was  slipping — he  had  jumped.  And 
as  he  jumped  a  heavy  square  of  stone  tumbled  with 
him  and  caught  him,  felled  him,  had  him  pinned 
into  the  tumbling  wall  by  his  coat.  And,  above,  the 
wall  swayed.  Then,  in  the  instant  of  time  before 
the  catastrophe,  Francois  had  sprung  like  a  cat  into 
the  center  of  danger  and  loosened  the  coat  and 
pushed  the  other  boy,  violently  reeling,  across  the 
grass  out  of  harm's  way. 

Alixe  screamed  once  sharply.  Francois  lay  mo 
tionless  on  his  face  and  the  great  stones  rained 
around  him.  It  was  all  over  in  a  moment ;  in  a  mo 
ment  more  a  shout  of  joy  rose  from  Pietro,  for 
Francois  lifted  his  head  and  began  crawling  diffi 
cultly,  with  Pietro's  help,  out  of  the  debris.  There 
was  a  cut  on  his  cheek,  a  deep  one,  bleeding  badly, 
on  the  back  of  his  hand;  and  bruises  were  dis 
tributed  over  him,  but  by  a  miracle  he  had  come  off 
with  his  life  and  only  so  much  the  worse.  No 
sooner  was  Francois  on  his  feet  than  Alixe  startled 
them  by  turning  on  the  innocent  and  surprised 
Pietro  in  a  perfect  fury  of  scorn. 

"He  is  not  dead — but  that  is  not  your  fault,"  she 
threw  at  him.  "You  who  love  him  so  much !  You 
let  him  go  into  that  danger," 


122  THE    MARSHAL 

"But — but  I  didn't  know  he  was  going,  Alixe," 
stammered  Pietro.  "It  was — so  quick." 

"Quick?  Yes,  Francois  was  quick.  Why  weren't 
you  quick,  too?  It  is  always  Frangois.  Why  don't 
you  do  something  brave  once  in  a  while?  Why 
don't  you  make  people  admire  you,  not  always  Fran 
gois?" 

"I  like  people  to  admire  Frangois,"  Pietro  an 
swered  sturdily.  "I  admire  him,  too."  Then,  his 
shyness  lost  in  eagerness  to  set  the  case  right  with 
Alixe,  he  went  on.  "Frangois  always  has  a  thing 
done  before  I  think  of  it.  That  is  not  my  fault.  I 
believe  I  should  not  have  been  afraid  to  do  that — • 
but — Francois  did  it." 

"It  is  always  so,"  said  Alixe  in  deep  disgust. 
"Frangois  always  does  it.  If  you  would  only  prove 
once  that  you  have — courage." 

And  at  that  the  stranger  broke  in,  smiling  his 
faint  smile.  "Mademoiselle  Alixe  is  severe,"  he 
said  gently.  "No  one  can  doubt  the  courage  of  a 
Marquis  Zappi."  He  faced  with  a  quick  movement 
to  Frangois,  and  his  look  changed.  One  would  not 
have  thought  that  the  controlled  cold  features  could 
so  show  warmth.  "I  have  to  thank  you  for  my  life, 
Monsieur  the  peasant,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "Moreover,  it  is  seldom  that  a  prophecy  is  so 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  123 

quickly  fulfilled."  They  gazed  at  him,  fascinated  by 
a  dignity  in  him  which  seemed  new. 

He  went  on.  "You  said  a  few  minutes  ago  that 
you  should  one  day  do  a  thing  worth  while  for  a 
Bonaparte.  You  have  done  it.  You  have  saved  my 
life." 

Bewildered,  the  children  stared,  reluctant  to  com 
prehend  something  which  seemed  out  of  possibility; 
Francois'  hand  crept  to  his  cap  and  he  pulled  it  off 
and  stood  bareheaded. 

"Monsieur,  who  are  you  ?"  he  brought  out. 

The  strange  boy's  vanishing  smile  brightened  his 
face  a  second.  "I  am  Louis  Bonaparte,"  he  said 
quietly. 

The  little  court  of  three  stood  about  the  young 
Prince,  silent.  And  in  a  moment,  in  a  few  sentences, 
he  had  told  them  how,  the  day  before,  he  had  been 
seized  with  a  hunger  for  the  air  of  France,  which 
he  had  not  breathed  since,  as  a  boy  of  seven,  his 
mother  had  escaped  with  him  from  Paris  during  the 
Hundred  Days.  He  told  them  how  the  desire  to 
stand  on  French  soil  had  possessed  him,  till  at  last 
he  had  run  away  from  his  tutor  and  had  found  the 
path  from  his  exiled  home,  the  castle  of  Arenen- 
berg,  in  the  canton  of  Thurgovie,  in  Switzerland, 
over  the  mountains  into  the  Jura  valley. 


124  THE    MARSHAL 

"It  is  imprudent,"  he  finished  the  tale  calmly. 
"The  government  would  turn  on  all  its  big  engines 
in  an  uproar  to  catch  one  schoolboy,  if  it  was  known. 
But  I  had  to  do  it."  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
filled  his  lungs  with  a  great  breath.  "The  air  of 
France,"  he  whispered  in  an  ecstasy.  The  romantic 
spirit  of  this  boy  always  flashed  out  as  a  surprise 
from  beneath  his  calm  self-contained  exterior. 
Then,  in  his  usual  quiet  tones,  "I  am  fortunate,"  he 
said.  "I  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  friends. 
Mademoiselle  Alixe — the  pretty  name" — and  he 
smiled  his  evanescent  smile — "is  almost  of  my 
family  because  of  her  father;  Monsieur  the  peasant 
has  proved  his  loyalty  with  his  life,  and" — he  turned 
to  the  tall  Pietro — "a  Bonaparte  is  safe  with  Mon 
sieur  the  Marquis  Zappi." 

"I  am  Pietro,"  stated  the  boy  shyly. 

The  Prince  looked  at  him,  narrowing  his  eyes 
again.  Then  "And  I  am  Louis,"  he  flashed  back. 
"It  is  a  good  thought.  Why  not  leave  out  the  titles 
for  this  afternoon?  We  are  all  young — it  is  sum 
mer — it  is  a  holiday.  We  have  an  ancient  castle 
and  an  adventure  to  play  with ;  what  use  have  we  for 
titles?  We  shall  never  see  one  another  again,  it  is 
likely.  So,  shall  we  not  be  Alixe  and  Pietro  and 
Francois  and  Louis,  four  children  together  for  this 


. 

"V^ttSUu.  .. 

>        ' 


"  I  am  Louis  Bonaparte,"  he  said,  quietly. 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  125 

one  day  of  our  friendship?"  And  the  others  laughed 
and  agreed. 

For  two  hours  more  they  told  stories  and  played 
games  through  the  soft  old  ruins  of  the  savage  old 
stronghold,  as  light-heartedly,  as  carelessly  as  if 
there  were  no  wars  or  intrigues  or  politics  or  plots 
which  had  been  and  were  to  be  close  to  the  lives  of 
all  of  them.  Till,  as  the  red  round  sun  went  down 
behind  the  mountain  of  the  Rose,  Franqois'  quick 
eye  caught  sight  of  a  figure  swinging  rapidly  down 
the  mountain  road  where  the  Prince  had  come. 

"But  look,  Louis,"  he  called  from  behind  the  rock 
where  he  was  preparing,  as  a  robber  baron,  to  swoop 
down  on  Prince  Louis  convoying  Alixe  as  an  es 
caped  nun  to  Pietro's  monastery  in  another  corner. 
"Look,  Louis !  Some  one  is  coming  whom  I  do  not 
know.  Is  it  a  danger  for  you  ?" 

And  the  boy  Prince,  suddenly  grave,  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand  and  gazed  up  the  mountain. 
Then  his  hand  fell  and  he  sighed.  "The  adventure 
is  over,"  he  said.  "I  must  go  back  to  the  Prince 
business.  It  is  Monsieur  Lebas." 

Monsieur  Lebas,  the  tutor,  arrived  shortly  in  any 
thing  but  a  playful  humor.  The  boy's  mother, 
Queen  Hortense,  was  in  Rome,  and  he  was  re 
sponsible;  he  had  been  frightened  to  the  verge  of 


126  THE    MARSHAL 

madness  by  the  Prince's  escapade.  It  was,  in  fact, 
as  serious  an  escapade  as  one  may  think,  or  it  might 
have  been.  The  movements  of  the  Bonapartes  were 
watched  at  that  time  by  the  authorities  of  France 
and  all  other  countries  as  well  with  a  closeness  and 
a  jealousy  out  of  proportion.  Europe  having  been 
turned  upside  down  lately  by  that  name,  that  name 
was  hedged  out  by  barriers  as  if  the  combination  of 
letters  in  itself  was  a  peril  to  a  government.  Louis 
Napoleon  at  sixteen  was  twice  removed  from  the 
headship  of  his  house;  the  Duke  of  Reichstadt,  son 
of  Napoleon  I.,  was  still  living  in  Austria,  and  Louis' 
own  brother,  the  older  son  of  King  Louis  and  Hor- 
tense,  was  with  his  father  in  Rome;  so  that  this 
runaway  lad  was  not  the  heir  to  anything,  even  to 
the  pretensions  of  a  dethroned  and  exiled  family. 
Yet  he  was  a  prince  of  the  Bonapartes,  and  the 
magic  of  the  name  and  of  the  legend  was  about  him. 
It  was  a  danger  to  France  to  have  his  footsteps  on 
her  soil,  so  the  laws  decreed ;  it  would  mean  for  him 
prison  and  perhaps  death  if  he  were  captured  in 
France.  No  wonder  poor  Monsieur  Lebas  was 
frightened  almost  to  extinction. 

The  playmates  were  separated  swiftly.  Monsieur 
Lebas  refused  with  something  like  horror  the  eager 
suggestion  of  the  children  that  he  and  his  charge 


THE    STRANGE    BOY  127 

should  spend  the  night  at  the  chateau.  The  Prince 
must  be  gotten  off  French  ground  without  a  mo 
ment's  delay;  Fritz  Rickenbach,  the  steward  of 
Arenenberg,  was  waiting  for  them  with  a  carriage 
over  the  mountain,  to  race  them  back  to  Switzer 
land  ;  it  was  through  Fritz  indeed,  and  a  discussion 
of  the  Prince  with  him  as  to  distances  and  direc 
tions,  that  the  distracted  tutor  had  known  how  to 
follow  his  quarry. 

So  the  three-hours'  friends  were  mercilessly  torn 
apart,  and  the  children  of  the  chateau  came  home  in 
the  twilight  stirred,  excited,  awed,  with  a  story  for 
the  seigneur  of  a  wandering  prince  and  a  crumbling 
wall;  of  a  midsummer  afternoon's  dream;  of  a 
frightened  tutor  and  a  quick  sharp  parting;  a  story 
which  the  seigneur  found  it  hard  to  believe.  He 
made  each  one  of  them  tell  the  tale.  Frangois  fin 
ished  the  last. 

"And  Louis  would  have  come  back  with  us  to  the 
chateau,  for  he  wanted  to  see  the  general  who  had 
been  one  of  his  uncle's  family — he  said  that,  Mon 
sieur  the  Seigneur.  But  Alonsieur  Lebas  would  not 
hear  of  it,  and  Louis  must  do  as  he  said,  he  told  us. 
But  at  the  end  Louis  took  each  of  our  hands — and 
he  kissed  Alixe's  hand — and  he  said  that  he  would 
never  forget  us  or  this  afternoon  in  the  old  chateau 


128  THE    MARSHAL 

of  Vieques.  And  I  believe  it,  my  Seigneur,  for 
there  is  something  about  him  which  makes  one  be 
lieve  he  will  remember — that  Louis." 

"Louis,  Louis !"  the  general  growled  in  repetition, 
staring  sternly  at  the  slim  figure  which  faced  him. 
"You  speak  that  name  very  glibly.  Do  you  happen 
to  remember,  Francois,  that  the  lad  whom  you  call 
Louis  so  easily  may  one  day  be  Emperor  of 
France  ?" 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  PROMISE 

"  7\/TON  DIEU!"  said  the  general. 
^L  YJ.  It  was  six  years  later.  At  the  new  chateau 
not  a  blade  of  grass  seemed  changed.  The  general 
stood  in  the  midst  of  close-cropped  millions  of 
blades  of  grass  as  he  stopped  short  on  the  sloping 
lawn  which  led  down  to  the  white  stone  steps  which 
led  to  the  sunken  garden.  At  each  side  of  the  high 
est  step  lifted  a  carved  stone  vase,  blazing  in  the 
September  afternoon  with  scarlet  geraniums,  and 
garlanded  with  vines.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  stood 
two  more  vases,  and  at  each  side  of  the  graveled 
path,  ribboned  with  a  long  flower-bed,  at  even  in 
tervals  of  thirty  feet,  another  stately  pair  of  them — 
the  gray  stiff  vases  spilling  intoxicating  brightness 
of  red  flowers.  They  led  the  eye  down  a  line  till,  a 
hundred  yards  away,  the  line  broke  into  a  circle 
where  a  sun-dial  set  on  a  fantastic  stone  figure  of  a 
satyr  marked  the  center  of  a  grass  plot.  Massive 
stone  seats  held  up  by  carved  crouching  griffins 
faced  each  other  across  the  sun-dial ;  on  one  of  these, 

129 


130  THE    MARSHAL 

in  the  sunny  stillness  of  the  garden,  sat  a  girl  and  a 
young  man.  Alixe,  in  her  riding-habit,  with  a 
feather  in  her  hat,  and  gauntleted  gloves  on  her 
hands,  was  so  lovely  as  to  be  startling.  She  looked 
at  the  ground,  half  shy,  half  laughing,  and  beat  the 
grass  with  her  riding-whip.  Francois  was  leaning 
toward  her  and  talking,  and  the  general,  coming 
slowly  down  the  lawn,  felt  a  flood  of  pride  rise  in 
him  as  he  looked  at  this  successful  picture  of  a  boy 
which  he  had  done  so  much  to  fashion.  The  two 
had  been  riding  together,  and  Francois  appeared, 
as  most  men  do,  at  his  best  in  his  riding  clothes. 
With  that,  as  the  general  marched  slowly  down  the 
velvet  slope,  unseen  by  them,  regarding  them — his 
girl  and  his  boy,  this  happy  sister  and  brother — with 
that  the  brother  lifted  the  sister's  hand  and,  bending 
over  it,  kissed  it  slowly,  in  a  manner  unmistakably 
unbrotherly. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  gasped  the  general,  and  turned  on 
his  heel  and  marched  back  to  his  library. 

All  that  afternoon  he  stayed  shut  up  in  the  library. 
At  dinner  he  was  taciturn. 

"Well  then,  father,"  Alixe  said  at  last,  after  the 
two  had  tried  every  subject  in  vain  to  make  him 
talk.  "It  will  be  necessary  now  to  buy  all  the  berries 
that  are  grown  for  ten  miles  around." 


THE    PROMISE  131 

"Berries?"  growled  the  general,  bewildered. 

"Surely." 

"Why  berries  ?"  ferociously. 

Alixe  looked  up  at  him  innocently.  "Isn't  it  ber 
ries  which  big  bears  live  on  ?  Or  will  you  eat  us,  my 
father,  when  you  have  bitten  our  heads  off  and  torn 
us  to  pieces?" 

And  the  general,  when  he  had  been  betrayed  into 
a  laugh,  sighed  deeply  and  got  up  from  his  chair, 
dinner  not  being  over,  and  stalked  back  to  his 
library.  Never  had  such  a  thing  happened. 

"What  is  it?"  Alixe  asked  of  Francois.  "He  is 
not  ill — he  told  us  that.  Have  you  done  something, 
you  wicked  sinful  boy,  to  trouble  him?" 

Francois  shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  "I  can  not 
think  of  anything,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  met  hers 
truthfully.  "But  we  shall  know  soon.  He  is  as 
frank  as  a  child ;  he  can  not  keep  a  grievance  from 
the  people  he  loves." 

Which  was  a  true  judgment,  for  the  next  morning 
the  general  sent  for  Francois  to  come  to  him  in  the 
library.  A  letter  had  been  brought  a  short  time  be 
fore  and  was  lying  open  on  the  table  by  his  hand. 

"Francois,"  began  the  general  in  his  deep  abrupt 
tones,  "I  am  in  trouble.  Will  you  help  me?" 

"Yes,  my  Seigneur,"  said  Francois  quickly. 


132  THE    MARSHAL 

"If  it  means  a  sacrifice  to  yourself?" 

"Yes,  my  Seigneur,"  Francois  answered. 

"We  shall  see."  The  general's  strong  lips  were 
set  and  he  said  nothing  more  for  a  moment,  but 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  letter  which  lay  under  his 
big  outspread  fingers.  At  length,  "You  remember 
Pietro's  father,  the  Marquis  Zappi  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Surely,  my  Seigneur." 

"You  remember  the  story  I  once  told  you,  how  he 
saved  my  life  in  Russia?" 

"I  have  never  forgotten  it." 

"You  realize  that  he  was  dearer  to  me  than  any 
man  on  earth  ?" 

"I  have  always  believed  it  so,"  said  Frangois. 

"Good,"  growled  the  general.  "You  will  bear 
that  in  mind.  I  wish  to  tell  you  now  of  an  arrange 
ment — a  hope  which  the  Marquis  Zappi  and  I  had 
formed  together.  It  was  to  be  the  crown  of  our 
friendship  and  its  perpetuation ;  it  was  to  have  been 
our  happiness  together;  it  would  be — it  will  be,  if 
all  goes  well,  the  happiest  thing  which  could  come 
to  my  life,  now  that  he  is  gone.  Would  you  break 
that  hope  and  take  that  happiness  from  me  ?" 

Frangois,  startled,  caught  a  quick  breath.  "My 
Seigneur!  You  should  not  ask.  You  know  I  would 
give  my  own  happiness  for  yours." 


THE    PROMISE  133 

The  general  glared  at  him,  frowning.  "We  shall 
see,"  he  said  again,  and  then — suddenly  as  a  shot 
from  a  cannon — "Does  Alixe  love  you,  Frangois  ?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  what  he  meant,  and 
Frangois  did  not  evade  it.  A  flame  of  scarlet  crept 
in  a  swift  diagonal  across  the  warm  brown  of  his 
boyish  cheeks,  but  his  clear  eyes  met  the  general's 
searching  look  frankly.  He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I — I  think  not,  my  Seigneur,"  he  answered  in  a 
low  voice. 

The  general  drew  in  an  enormous  sigh  of  relief. 
"Thank  God,"  he  said  devoutly,  and  then  put  out 
his  hand  and  laid  hold  of  Frangois'  strong  lean 
fingers.  "My  Frangois,  you  are  dear  as  my  own 
son;  you  know  it.  You  are  next  to  Alixe — be 
fore  Pietro — ah,  yes,  much  before  Pietro.  You 
will  understand  it  is  not  from  any  lack  of  affection 
that  I  put  him  before  you  in  this." 

Frangois,  high-strung,  deeply  stirred,  felt  his  hand 
throb  suddenly  in  the  general's,  and  the  general  felt 
it,  too. 

"I  am  hurting  you,"  the  deep  voice  said — and 
only  one  or  two  people  in  the  world  had  heard  that 
voice  so  full  of  tenderness.  "I  am  hurting  my  son. 
But  listen,  Frangois.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of 
Pietro's  father — it  has  been  my  dearest  wish  for 


134  THE    MARSHAL 

years — that  Alixe  and  Pietro  should  one  day  be 
married.  It  is  that  which  would  be  the  crown  of  a 
friendship  forged  in  the  fires  of  battle-fields,  tem 
pered  in  the  freezing  starving  snow  fields  of  Russia, 
finished — I  hope  never  finished  in  all  eternity." 

The  general's  great  frame  was  shaking;  a  silence 
cut  across  his  speech.  He  went  on. 

"Such  a  marriage  would  carry  on  ourselves,  our 
friendship,  and  keep  it  a  living  thing  on  the  earth 
long  after  we  had  left.  That  thought  is  thrilling  to 
me ;  it  is  my  greatest  wish.  Do  you  see  now  why  I 
was  troubled  when  yesterday  I  saw  you,  in  the  gar 
den,  kiss  Alixe's  hand?  I  was  afraid  the  child  had 
given  her  heart  to  you,  and  that  my  dream,  Alessan- 
dro's  and  mine" — he  spoke  this  as  if  to  himself — 
"might  never  be  realized." 

Frangois,  his  head  bent,  his  eyes  on  the  general's 
hand  which  held  his,  answered  very  quietly.  "I 
see,"  he  said. 

"I  forgot,"  the  general  went  on,  almost  as  if  he 
were  alone  and  were  talking  aloud  to  himself.  "I 
forgot  they  were  not  real  brother  and  sister.  It  was 
mad  of  me.  Such  a  beauty  as  my  Alixe — such  a 
wonderful  lad  as  my  Francois !  Yet  I  did  not  dream 
of  the  change  till  yesterday.  I  have  gone  through 
much  since  then,  but,  thank  God,  thank  the  good 


THE    PROMISE  135 

God,  it  is  not  too  late.  She  does  not  love  him.  It 
has  not  gone  further  than  what  I  saw,  Franqois?" 
He  fired  the  words  at  the  young  fellow  in  his  natural 
manner  again.  "You  have  not  put  ideas  into  her 
head  more  than  what  I  saw?" 

"No,  my  Seigneur."  The  voice  was  without  in 
flection;  the  look  was  still  on  the  big  hand  which 
held  his  own  fast. 

"You  would  not  take  her  from  Pietro,  who,  I  am 
sure,  loves  her?" 

Francois  looked  up  sharply,  but  the  general  did 
not  notice.  He  spoke  slowly.  "I  promised  Pietro's 
father" — the  boy  seemed  to  be  out  of  breath — "to  be 
Pietro's  friend — always,"  he  said. 

The  general  smiled  then  and  let  the  fingers  go, 
and  turned  to  the  letter  on  the  table  before  him. 
"Good!"  he  said.  "You  are  always  what  I  wish, 
Francois,"  and  it  was  quite  evident  that  the  load 
was  off  his  mind.  "I  am  contented  that  no  harm 
has  been  done  to  either  of  my  children.  As  for  you, 
however,  you  are  twenty.  You  are  full  of  ambition 
and  soldier-craft  and  politics  and  fighting — there  is 
small  place  left  for  love  in  such  a  boiling  kettle  of 
fish  as  you.  If  my  girl  has  touched  your  heart  a 
bit,  as  it  looked  yesterday," — and  the  general 
chuckled  gently — "well,  you  are  twenty — the  wound 


136  THE    MARSHAL 

will  heal."  He  slapped  the  letter  on  the  table.  "I 
must  now  have  a  long  talk  with  you  on  an  interest 
ing  subject — yourself." 

The  general  was  by  this  in  high  good  humor.  A 
spasm  caught  the  face  of  the  boy  and  left  it  pale, 
but  the  general,  busy  at  putting  on  his  spectacles,  did 
not  see.  When  he  turned  to  look  at  him  Francois 
was  as  usual. 


WITH    ALL    MY   SOUL 

THE  general  swung  around  to  the  lad.  "Fran- 
i;ois,  this  letter  is  about  you."  He  tapped  the 
rustling  paper.  "It  is  an  opening,  I  believe,  into  the 
sort  of  life  which  you  have  desired,  a  life  of  action 
and  of  danger." 

"It  is  what  I  wish,"  broke  in  Francois  eagerly. 

"I  know  it,"  the  general  spoke  approvingly.  "But 
before  we  discuss  it  I  want  to  tell  you,  my  Francois, 
that  I  am  not  only  glad  for  your  sake,  but  proud  for 
my  own  sake,  to  send  you,  my  adopted  son,  where 
you  will  have  an  opening  for  distinction.  You  know 
that  I  am  satisfied  with  you — you  do  not  know  how 
deeply.  Ten  years  ago,  Francois,  I  found  you  a 
little  peasant  lad  in  the  village;  it  did  not  take  long 
to  see  that  you  had  a  character  out  of  the  common. 
If  I  had  left  you  where  you  belonged  you  would 
still  have  been  out  of  the  common,  you  would  still 
have  lifted  yourself.  But  circumstances  would  not 
have  allowed  you  very  full  play,  and  it  seemed  to  me 

'37 


138  THE    MARSHAL 

you  deserved  full  play.  I  loved  you  the  more  for  re 
fusing  to  come  to  me ;  that  showed  the  stuff  in  you — • 
loyalty — self-sacrifice.  But  I  have  managed  to  out 
wit  you  about  that  fairly  well,  eh,  mon  petit?  I 
have  given  you  your  chance  in  spite  of  yourself. 
And  you  have  taken  it — mon  Dieu!  You  have  made 
the  most  of  your  chance ! 

"When  you  graduated  two  years  ago  at  the  top  of 
the  school,  when  Pietro  left  us  and  went  off  to  his 
castle  in  Italy  and  you  came  back  to  me  here  as  fine  a 
young  gentleman  as  any  duke's  son,  I  said  to  myself 
that  I  had  done  well.  Somewhere,  from  that  re 
markable  mother  of  yours,  I  believe,  you — a  peasant 
— have  got  the  simplicity  and  the  unconsciousness 
that  are  the  finest  touches  of  the  finest  breeding.  I 
am  very  proud  of  you,  Francois.  I  was  proud 
when,  just  after  you  graduated,  the  leaders  of  the 
Bonapartist  faction  in  France  came  to  this  chateau 
for  a  secret  convention  and  I  could  present  you  to 
them  as  my  adopted  child,  as  my  collaborator  in  the 
new  book,  our  military  history  of  the  Austerlitz 
campaign — that  had  a  good  sound  for  a  lad  of 
eighteen.  And,  name-of-a-dog!  you  held  up  your 
end — you  could  talk  to  them  like  a  soldier  and  a 
statesman.  Mon  Dieu,  yes! 

"And  then,  when  they  wrote  and  suggested  send- 


WITH    ALL    MY    SOUL  139 

ing  you  as  ambassador  on  the  secret  mission  to  the 
Duke  of  Reichstadt  last  year,  I  almost  burst  with 
pride  to  think  how  well  you  were  fitted  for  it ;  fitted 
to  talk  with  princes,  equipped  with  the  knowledge 
and  the  statecraft  to  handle  a  delicate  political  situ 
ation.  It  is  no  easy  thing  to  find  such  an  ambassa 
dor,  for  such  a  mission — a  man  not  marked  or 
known,  yet  with  the  subtle  and  strong  qualities 
which  make  a  man  marked.  You,  with  your  youth 
and  peasant  name  and  air  of  a  young  noble,  filled 
the  difficult  want.  You  did  it  well  and  won  laurels 
from  critical  old  diplomatists. 

"I  have  been  worrying  a  bit  since  to  have  kept 
you  here  chained  to  me  and  the  writing  of  a  history, 
when  you  ought  to  be  at  the  job  of  making  history. 
Yet  you  are  only  twenty.  Time  has  not  pressed,  so 
far.  And  moreover,  I  await  a  revolution  when  men 
such  as  you  will  be  needed ;  the  Bonapartist  yeast  is 
working  under  the  surface  of  all  the  country;  the 
time  will  come  when  a  single  crashing  blow  perhaps 
will  shake  France  and  place  one  of  the  Emperor's 
name  on  the  Emperor's  throne.  And  at  that  time 
you,  Monsieur,  must  be  ready  to  put  your  strength 
into  that  blow.  You  and  I  have  faith,  my  son,  in 
that  accolade  of  the  Emperor  of  your  infancy;  you 
and  I  believe  that,  as  he  said,  you  may  be  one  day 


140  THE    MARSHAL 

'a  Marshal  of  France  under  another  Bonaparte.'  It 
is  for  you  to  fulfil  that  prophecy." 

The  general,  his  big  hands  on  his  big  knees,  stared 
at  the  boy  with  burning  eyes,  stirred  by  his  own 
words  into  a  true  French  access  of  enthusiasm.  But 
the  boy's  eyes  did  not  meet  his  as  usual  with  the 
flame  of  whole-hearted  response  which  he  loved; 
yet  the  general,  carried  away  by  his  own  generous 
feelings,  was  not  dissatisfied.  This  was  his  boy; 
what  he  did  was  right.  He  drew  in  a  great  breath 
and  let  it  out  in  a  sigh  of  large  contentment. 

"I  have  talked  you  to  extinction,  Francois,"  he 
growled.  "And  in  all  my  words  I  have  not  man 
aged  to  tell  you  what  it  is  that  I  am  talking  about." 
He  tapped  the  letter  again  which  lay  under  his  hand. 
"Pietro  wants  you  to  come  to  him  as  his  secretary." 

Frangois'  large  eyes  lifted  to  the  general's  face, 
inquiring,  startled,  childlike.  "Pietro!"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

"Yet  you  knew  that  Pietro  was  heart  and  soul  in 
the  plots  of  the  Italian  patriots?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  had  not  thought  of  going  to  help  him 
fight?" 

"No,  my  Seigneur.  I  had  thought  only  of  the 
fight  for  which  I  must  be  ready  here." 


WITH    ALL   MY    SOUL  141 

"This  Italian  business  will  be  good  practise,"  said 
the  general,  as  a  man  of  to-day  might  speak  of  a 
tennis  tournament.  "And  you  and  Pietro  will  be  en 
chanted  to  be  together  again." 

Frangois  smiled,  and  something  in  the  smile 
wrung  the  general's  heart. 

"Francois,  you  are  not  going  to  be  unhappy  about 
little  Alixe?" 

Quickly  Frangois  threw  back,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  the  question:  "My  Seigneur,  I  will  go  to 
Pietro ;  it  will  be  the  best  thing  possible — action  and 
training,  and  good  old  Pietro  for  a  comrade.  My 
Seigneur,  may  I  go  to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow!"  The  general  was  startled  now. 
"A  thousand  thunders,  but  you  are  a  sudden  lad! 
Yet  it  will  be  no  harder  to  give  you  up  to-morrow 
than  it  would  be  next  month.  Yes,  to-morrow,  then, 
let  it  be." 

Francois  stood  up,  slim,  young,  alert  and  steady, 
yet  somehow  not  as  the  boy  who  had  come  in  to  the 
general  an  hour  before;  more,  perhaps,  as  a  man 
who  had  been  through  a  battle  and  come  out  very 
tired,  with  the  noise  of  the  fighting  in  his  ears. 

"I  will  go  to  the  farm  to-night,  to  my  mother  and 
my  father.  And  this  afternoon  I  will  ride  with 
Alixe,  if  you  do  not  want  me  for  the  book,  my 


142  THE    MARSHAL 

Seigneur — and  if  she  will  go.  May  I  ask  you  not  to 
tell  Alixe  of  this — to  leave  it  to  me  to  tell  her?" 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  general  doubtfully.  "But  you 
will  be  careful  not  to — upset  her,  Frangois?" 

"I  will  be  careful." 

"And — and  you  will  do  what  you  can  to  help 
Pietro,  will  you  not,  my  son  ?" 

A  quick  contraction  twisted  Francois'  sensitive 
mouth  and  was  gone,  but  this  time  the  general  saw. 
"You  may  trust  me,  my  Seigneur,"  the  boy  said,  and 
moved  to  the  door ;  but  the  general  called  to  him  as 
his  hand  touched  the  latch. 

"Francois!" 

"Yes,  my  Seigneur."  He  faced  about,  steady  and 
grave,  and  stood  holding  the  door. 

"Francois,  my  son — I  have  not  hurt  you — very 
much?  You  do  not  love  Alixe — deeply?  Do  you 
love  her,  Francois?" 

There  was  a  shock  of  stillness  in  the  old  dim 
library.  Through  the  window — where  the  children's 
shouts  had  come  in  ten  years  before  to  the  marquis 
and  the  general — one  heard  now  in  the  quiet  the  sud 
den  staccato  of  a  late  cricket.  The  general,  breath 
ing  anxiously,  looked  at  Francois,  Francois  stand 
ing  like  a  statue.  The  general  repeated  his  question 
softly,  breathlessly.  "Do  you  love  her,  Francois?" 


WITH    ALL    MY    SOUL  143 

With  that  the  great  eyes  blazed  and  the  whole 
face  of  the  boy  lighted  as  if  a  fire  had  flamed  inside 
a  lantern.  He  threw  back  his  head. 

"With  all  my  soul,"  he  said.    "And  forever." 


CHAPTER    XV 

I    SAID  IT,  AND   I    WILL 

A  HUSHING  mountain  stream — white-veiled  in 
the  falling,  black-brown  in  the  foam-flecked 
pools — tumbled,  splashed,  brawled  down  the  moun 
tain;  the  mountain  hung  over,  shadowy;  banks  of 
fern  held  the  rampant  brook  in  chains  of  green. 
Alixe  and  Frangois,  riding  slowly  in  the  coolness  of 
the  road  below,  looked  up  and  saw  it  all,  familiar, 
beautiful,  full  of  old  associations. 

"One  misses  Pietro,"  Frangois  said.  "He  always 
wanted  to  ride  past  the  'Trou  du  Gouverneur'." 

A  Roman  legend  had  given  this  name  to  the  deep 
pool  of  the  brook  by  the  road ;  it  was  said  that  the 
cruel  old  governor  had  used  it,  two  thousand  years 
back,  for  drowning  refractory  peasants.  Alixe  gazed 
steadily  at  the  dark  murmuring  water. 

"Yes,  one  misses  him.  Is  life  like  that,  do  you 
suppose,  Frangois  ?  One  grows  up  with  people,  and 
they  get  to  be  as  much  a  part  of  living  as  the  air,  or 
one's  hands — and  then,  suddenly,  one  is  told  that 

144 


I    SAID    IT,    AND    I    WILL  145 

they  are  going  away.  And  that  ends  it.  One  must 
do  without  air,  without  hands.  What  a  world, 
Francois !" 

"We  are  not  meant  to  like  it  too  much,  I  believe, 
Alixe,"  said  Francois  sunnily.  "It  is  just  en  pas 
sant,  this  world,  when  you  stop  to  consider.  The. 
real  business  will  come,  I  suppose,  when  we  are 
moved  on  a  step  farther.  Friendships  and  separa 
tions  will  not  seem  so  badly  arranged  then,  probably. 
This  is  school,  this  life,  I  gather.  My  mother  says 
it  is  not  very  important  if  one  has  a  good  seat  in  the 
school-room  or  a  bad;  if  one  sits  near  one's  play 
mates  or  is  sent  to  another  corner,  so  long  as  one  is 
a  good  child  and  works  heartily  at  one's  lessons.  It 
is  only  for  a  day — and  then  we  go  home,  where  all 
that  is  made  right.  Not  a  bad  idea  of  my  mother's, 
is  it,  Alixe?" 

"Your  mother  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  Alixe  an 
swered  thoughtfully.  "She  lives  like  that.  She 
never  let  things  trouble  her,  not  even  when  your 
father  lost  everything.  Did  she,  Francois?" 

"No,"  said  Francois.  "She  is  one  of  the  few 
people  who  know  what  the  real  things  are  and  live 
in  them.  It  is  hard  to  do  that.  I  can  not.  I  care 
so  bitterly  for  what  I  want.  It  is" — Francois  hesi 
tated — "it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  give  up — what  I 


146  THE    MARSHAL 

want."  He  stumbled  over  the  words;  his  voice 
shook  so  that  Alixe  shifted  in  the  saddle  and  looked 
at  him  inquiringly. 

"Francois!  Is  anything  wrong?  Must  you  give 
up  something?" 

Francois  laughed  then  and  patted  the  brown 
arching  neck  of  Capitaine,  successor  to  Coq.  "Ev 
erybody  must  give  up  things;  and  renunciation  is 
the  measure  of  strength,"  he  said  with  twenty-year- 
old  generalization,  yet  with  a  light  in  his  face  which 
might  have  been  the  smiling  of  an  aged  saint.  "You 
were  talking  about  Pietro,"  he  went  on  rapidly; 
"about  our  separation  from  him,  our  good  old 
Pietro !  I  do  miss  him.  Yet  that  was  inevitable  from 
the  beginning.  That  was  life.  Pietro  is  Italian ;  he  has 
his  place  over  there" — and  he  nodded  to  where  far- 
off  Italy  might  lie.  "He  is  a  man,  Pietro,  every 
inch,  already.  He  has  gone  to  fill  his  place,  as 
quietly,  as  unhesitatingly  as  he  will  do  everything 
that  comes  to  him." 

"Everything  that  comes  to  him — yes."  Alixe 
spoke  a  little  scornfully.  "But — Frangois — he  does 
not  go  very  fast  to  meet  the  things  that  come  to 
him." 

Francois'  eyes  flashed  at  her.  "You  have  never 
been  fair  to  Pietro,  Alixe." 


I    SAID   IT,    AND    I    WILL  147 

"Not  fair?"  Alixe  interrupted,  and  laughed. 

"No,  not  fair,"  repeated  the  boy.  "You  do  not 
seem  to  see  what  he  is — a  heart  of  gold,  a  wall  of 
rock.  It  is  not  his  way  to  talk  much,  but  he  has 
great  qualities." 

"What?"  asked  Alixe. 

"What!"  Francois  repeated.  "You  to  ask  that! 
You  know  as  well  as  I  that  Pietro  is  a  Bayard — 
without  fear  and  without  reproach.  He  is  unchang 
ing  as  the  ocean — he  is  to  be  believed  in  his  slightest 
word.  You  know  that  it  would  be  a  commonplace 
for  Pietro  to  be  killed  rather  than  play  false  to  the 
smallest  trust.  He  is  a  fanatic  of  reliability." 

"You  make  him  out  a  slow  worthy  person,"  said 
Alixe,  and  drew  up  the  horse's  bridle.  "You  can 
respect  a  man  with  all  those  sterling  qualities,  but — 
he  isn't  very — dashing  to  be  like  that.  Is  he?  I 
like  a  man  to  have  initiative — some  gift  of  leader 
ship." 

Francois  looked  at  her  sternly.  "Dashing!  Initi 
ative!  Do  you  remember,  Alixe,  what  it  is  that 
Pietro  has  done  ?  Do  you  realize  that  Italy  is  in  the 
stress  of  a  desperate  struggle  for  liberty?  That  a 
forlorn  fight  against  the  power  of  the  Austrians  is 
on  her  hands,  and  that  Pietro  went  back  at  eighteen 
to  take  his  part  with  the  patriots?  Do  you  realize 


148  THE    MARSHAL 

what  danger  that  means  ?  Danger  not  only  of  death, 
but  of  worse,  of  years  of  imprisonment  in  some 
dungeon.  Noblemen  of  higher  rank  than  Pietro 
are  living  in  chains  there  now.  It  is  our  playmate 
Pietro  who  is  facing  this — Pietro,  who  has  breathed 
the  free  air  and  ridden  with  us  through  this  valley 
for  so  many  years.  He  realizes  it.  He  went  with 
his  eyes  open.  His  family  are  marked ;  he  will  be  a 
leader  against  the  Austrians;  he  will  be  one  of  the 
first  to  be  punished  if  the  Austrians  conquer — and 
they  are  very  strong.  He  went  back  to  Italy  to  a 
lonely  life,  to  a  life  of  intense  effort  and  activity  and 
danger,  as  quietly  as  if  he  were  going  back  to  school. 
And  you,  you  whom" — Frangois  stopped — and  went 
on — "you  whom  he  loves  better  than  any  one  in  the 
world — wrong  him." 

By  now  Alixe  was  half  sobbing.  "How  horrid 
you  are,  Francois !  You  jump  at  conclusions.  You 
are  not  the  only  person  who  cares  for  Pietro.  I  do 
not  wrong  him — not  in  my  thoughts.  I  abused  him 
to  you  on  purpose.  I  wanted  to  see  what  you  would 
say  for  him.  One  does  that.  If  one — really  cares — 
for  a  person,  one  has  the  right.  It  is  not  disloyalty ; 
I  could  abuse  my  father — I  could  say  any  horrid 
thing  I  chose,  and  not  a  word,  not  a  shadow  of  a 
thought,  would  be  disloyal,  because  I  love  him  so 


I    SAID   IT,    AND    I   WILL  149 

that  it  would  all  be  nothing  compared  to  that  I 
know  Pietro  is  brave ;  I  know  he  has  gone  into  dan 
ger — is  it  so  very  bad,  Frangois?  But — I  am  irri 
tated  often  with  Pietro — because  you  are  always  the 
hero.  It  is  always  you  who  do  the  brave  thing,  and 
it  is  easy  for  every  one  to — to  adore  you,  Francois. 
You  seem  only  to  smile  at  a  person  and  they — they 
care  for  you.  And  Pietro  is  just — quiet  and  reli 
able.  It  isn't  fair  for  you  to  have — everything." 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  now,  and  a  quiver  in 
her  voice,  and  the  last  word  was  punctuated  by  an 
indignant  sob. 

"Alixe — dear," — then  Francois  stopped.  "You 
need  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  have  more  than 
Pietro,"  he  began  uncertainly.  "For  it  is  not  going 
to  be  so.  He  will  have  what — what  I  would  give 
my  life  for."  Then  he  hurried  on.  "I  see  how  it 
is,"  he  said  gently,  "and  you  are  right  to  care  so 
loyally  for  Pietro.  He  is  worth  it.  And  you  must 
never  care  less,  Alixe — never  forget  him  because  he 
has  gone  away.  He  will  come  back."  The  boy 
spoke  with  effort,  slowly,  but  Alixe  was  too  much 
occupied  with  her  own  tumultuous  thoughts  to  no 
tice.  "He  will  surely  come  back  and — belong  to  you 
more  than  ever.  He  will  come  back  distinguished 
and  covered  with  honors,  perhaps,  and  then — and 


150  THE    MARSHAL 

then — Alixe,  do  you  see  the  chestnut  tree  at  the 
corner  that  turns  to  the  chateau  ?  It  is  a  good  bit  of 
soft  road — we  will  race  to  that  tree — shall  we?  And 
then  I  will  tell  you  something." 

The  horses  sprang  into  a  canter  and  then  a  gallop, 
and  stretched  their  legs  and  flattened  down  into  a 
sharp  run.  The  girl  and  the  boy  were  flying  side 
by  side  through  the  mellow  landscape;  the  gray 
towers  and  red  roofs  of  the  chateau  were  in  the 
distance ;  the'  little  Cheulte  lay  to  the  right,  its  pools 
like  a  string  of  quicksilver  beads  spotted  on  the 
fields ;  the  mountain  of  the  Rose,  calm  and  enormous 
and  dark,  lifted  out  of  the  country  to  the  left. 
Many  a  time  in  the  six  years  to  come  Frangois  saw 
that  picture  and  felt  the  vibrating  air  as  they  rushed 
through  it.  He  had  strained  his  very  soul  to  talk  at 
length  as  he  had  of  his  rival,  of  his  friend;  he  felt 
sick  and  exhausted  from  the  effort ;  now  he  must  tell 
her  that  he  was  going  to-morrow,  and  he  must  not 
let  a  word  or  a  look  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  The 
horses  raced  merrily;  Alixe  sat  close  to  the  saddle 
with  the  light  swinging  seat,  the  delicate  hand  on 
the  bridle,  which  were  part  of  her  perfect  horse 
manship,  and  over  and  over  as  he  watched  her  ride 
Frangois  said  to  himself: 

"I  will  give  my  happiness  for  the  seigneur's — I 


Alixe,   dear," — then   Frangois   stopped. 


I    SAID    IT,    AND    I    WILL  151 

said  it,  and  I  will.  I  will  be  a  friend  to  Pietro  al 
ways — I  said  it,  and  I  will." 

Over  and  over  the  horses'  flying  feet  pounded  out 
that  self-command,  and  at  length  the  music  of  the 
multiplying  hoof  beats  grew  slower,  and  with  tight 
ening  rein  they  drew  in  and  stopped  under  the  big 
chestnut.  Alixe  was  laughing,  exhilarated,  lovely. 

"Wasn't  it  a  good  race?  Didn't  they  go  deli- 
ciously?"  she  threw  at  him.  And  then,  "We  will  go 
around  by  the  Delesmontes  Road;  it  is  only  three 
miles  farther,  and  it  is  early  in  the  afternoon ;  there 
is  nothing  to  do." 

Francois  spoke  slowly.  "I  am  afraid — I  must 
not,  Alixe.  I  am  going  to  the  farm  to-night." 

"To  the  farm!"  Alixe  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
"But  you  were  not  to  go  till  to-morrow.  My  father 
and  I  will  ride  over  with  you.  Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

"No,"  said  Francois,  "I  have  not  forgotten — no, 
indeed.  But  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  Alixe." 

"Going  away?"  Alixe  turned  sharply,  and  her 
deep  blue  glance  searched  his  eyes.  "What  do  you 
mean,  Franqois?"  And  then,  imperiously:  "Don't 
tease  me,  Francois!  I  don't  like  it." 

Frangois  steadied,  hardened  his  face  very  care 
fully,  and  answered :  "I  am  not  teasing  you,  Alixe. 
I  did  not  tell  you  before  because — "  he  stopped,  for 


1 52  THE    MARSHAL 

his  voice  was  going  wrong — "because  I  thought  we 
would  have  our  ride  just  as  usual  to-day.  I  only 
knew  about  it  myself  this  morning.  I  am  going  to 
Pietro." 

"Going — to  Pietro!"  Alixe  was  gasping  pain 
fully.  "Francois — it  is  a  joke — -tell  me  it  is  a  poor 
joke.  Quick !"  she  ordered.  "I  won't  have  you  play 
with  me,  torture  me !" 

"It  is  not  a  joke."  The  boy's  eyes  were  held  by 
a  superhuman  effort  on  the  buckle  of  the  bridle-rein 
lying  on  his  knee.  "There  was  a  letter  from  Pietro 
this  morning.  The  seigneur  wishes  me  to  go.  I 
wish  to  go.  I  am  leaving  to-morrow." 

"Going  to-morrow !"  The  girl's  voice  was  a  wail. 
"You — taken  away  from  me!"  Then  in  a  flash: 
"I  hate  Pietro !  He  is  cruel — he  thinks  only  of  him 
self.  He  wants  you — but  I  want  you  too.  How  can 
I  live  without  you,  Francois?"  Then  softly,  hur 
riedly,  while  the  world  reeled  about  the  boy,  sitting 
statue-like  in  his  saddle :  "It  is  just  as  I  said.  You 
are  as  much  a  part  of  my  life  as  the  air  I  breathe — 
and  you  and  my  father  and  Pietro  say  quite  calmly, 
'The  air  is  to  be  taken  away — you  must  do  without 
it.'  I  can  not.  I  will  choke!"  She  pulled  at  her 
collar  suddenly,  as  if  the  choking  were  a  physical 
present  fact. 


I    SAID   IT,    AND    I    WILL  153 

No  slightest  motion,  no  shade  of  inflection  missed 
Frangois;  still  he  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  on  the 
little  brass  buckle,  his  lips  set  in  a  line,  without  a 
word,  without  a  look  toward  her.  And  suddenly 
Alixe,  with  another  quick  blue  glance  from  under 
the  black  long  lashes — Alixe,  hurt,  reckless,  des 
perate,  had  struck  her  horse  a  sharp  blow — and  she 
was  in  the  road  before  him,  galloping  away. 

He  let  her  go.  He  sat  quiet  a  long  time.  As  she 
turned  in,  still  galloping,  at  the  high  stone  gateway 
of  the  chateau,  his  eyes  came  back  again  to  the  little 
shining  buckle.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  tangible 
in  a  dream-universe  of  rapture  and  agony.  Over 
and  over  he  heard  the  words  she  had  said — words 
which  must  mean — what?  Had  they  meant  it? 
Had  he  possibly  been  mistaken?  No — the  utter 
happiness  which  came  with  the  memory  of  the  soft 
hurried  voice  must  mean  the  truth — she  cared  for 
him,  and  then  over  and  over  and  over  he  said,  half 
aloud,  through  his  set  teeth : 

"I  said  that  I  would  give  my  happiness  for  my 
seigneur's;  I  said  that  I  would  be  a  friend  to  Pietro; 
I  will" 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  MOTHER  OF  A  PRINCE 

THE  walls  of  the  palace  at  Ancona  dropped  to 
the  sea ;  against  them  the  waves  danced.  Out 
on  the  blue  water  lay  a  fleet  of  fishing-boats,  and 
the  wind  flapped  torn  sails,  and  the  sunlight  glanced 
on  battered  hulls  and  littered  decks.  The  woman 
who  sat  by  an  open  window  of  the  palace  pushed  the 
black  trailing  of  her  gown  from  her,  as  if  the  som- 
berness  hurt  her  eyes ;  she  laid  her  head  against  the 
window-frame  and  stared  at  the  breeze-tossed  waves 
and  the  fishing  fleet. 

"It  may  be  our  only  hope  of  escape — those 
wretched  boats,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  and  her  blue 
eyes  were  full  of  sadness,  almost  of  hopelessness. 

A.  sound  caught  her  ear,  and  she  lifted  her  head 
quickly.  The  door  into  the  next  room  was  partly 
open  and  some  one  moved  there,  that  was  all.  She 
turned,  the  lines  of  her  figure  falling  again  into  a 
melancholy  pose. 

'154 


THE    MOTHER    OF    A    PRINCE      155 

"The  doctor  takes  a  long  time,"  she  spoke,  and 
gazed  out  once  more  to  the  water. 

There  had  been  a  spirited  young  girl  years  before 
who  had  romped  in  the  gardens  of  Malmaison,  who 
had  led  the  laughter  which  echoed  through  those 
avenues  of  lime  and  plantain,  whose  sweetness  and 
vivacity  had  drawn  the  figure  of  Napoleon  himself 
into  the  vortex  of  gladness  which  was  her  atmos 
phere.  Always  brightness  seemed  to  follow  her 
through  the  enchantment  of  the  place;  always  she 
seemed  to  move  in  gaiety.  To-day,  on  a  March 
morning  of  1830,  this  was  she — Hortense. 

The  daughter  of  France  she  had  been,  the  queen 
of  Holland,  and  now  for  years  an  exile.  Here,  ill, 
a  fugitive,  in  her  nephew's  palace  at  Ancona,  with 
the  Austrians  at  the  gate  of  the  city,  she  waited  in 
anxiety  almost  more  intense  than  she  could  bear  the 
word  of  the  doctor  as  to  her  son.  Five  days  before, 
at  Forli,  her  older  boy  had  died,  and  her  sore  heart 
stirred  with  a  sickening  throb  as  she  thought  of  this 
other — Louis — now  her  only  child,  lying  in  the 
room  beyond  in  a  high  fever,  ill  with  the  disease  with 
which  his  brother  had  fallen.  A  woman's  soul 
might  well  be  overcrowded  with  such  sorrow  and 
such  fear,  but  there  was  more.  Her  two  boys  had 
thrown  in  their  lot  shortly  before  with  the  Italian 


156  THE    MARSHAL 

revolutionists,  and  had  fought,  and  had  distin 
guished  themselves.  And  now  that  the  revolution  of 
the  Romagna  was  a  failure,  that  the  Austrian  army 
was  advancing  victoriously,  now  that  death  had 
taken  the  older  to  safety,  the  younger — Louis — the 
invalid  lad  in  the  room  -beyond,  was  in  imminent 
danger.  He  was  excepted  from  the  general  am 
nesty;  the  natural  ways  of  escape  were  closed,  for 
the  authorities  of  Tuscany  and  of  Switzerland  had 
let  her  know  that  the  Prince  would  not  be  permitted 
in  those  territories.  From  Rome  two  of  her  son's 
uncles,  Cardinal  Fesch  and  King  Jerome,  had  sent 
word  that  if  he  were  taken  by  the  Austrians  he  was 
lost.  And  at  the  moment  when  Hortense  had  de 
cided  to  carry  her  boy  off  to  Turkey  by  way  of 
Corfu,  an  Austrian  fleet  appeared  in  the  Adriatic. 

But  the  spirit  and  the  wit  of  the  girl  of  Malmaison 
were  strong  in  the  woman  who  must  save  her  son. 
Wherever  she  went  she  made  new  friends,  so  win 
ning  was  her  personality;  wherever  she  went  she 
found  old  friends  who  had  not  forgotten  her.  There 
had  been  a  young  English  earl  in  the  Malmaison 
days  who  had  lost  his  steady  heart  to  the  piquant 
fascination  of  the  Princess  Hortense  as  she  laughed 
at  him  from  the  side  of  Josephine.  He  had  gone 
away  saddened,  but  had  never  quite  forgotten  his 


THE    MOTHER    OF    A    PRINCE      157 

French  sweetheart.  At  Florence,  a  month  before, 
he  had  appeared,  and  to  his  influence  she  owed  a 
British  passport  made  out  for  an  English  lady  trav 
eling  with  two  sons.  No  one  would  suspect  that  she 
would  dare  take  the  route  described  in  it — through 
Paris  to  England — but  Hortense  dared  much  al 
ways,  and  everything  for  her  children.  She  had  set 
out  from  Florence  to  find  them,  to  draw  them  from 
the  doomed  army  of  insurgents;  to  save  them  from 
the  Austrians.  When  she  found  them,  Napoleon, 
the  elder,  was  dead  and  Louis  was  coming  down 
with  his  brother's  malady.  But  the  boy  kept  up  for 
his  mother's  sake,  and  the  two,  fresh  from  their 
loss,  had  pressed  on  hurriedly  to  Ancona,  for  there 
was  not  a  moment  to  spare.  So  ill  herself  that  she 
could  not  stand  alone,  she  made  all  the  arrange 
ments  for  their  escape ;  English  liveries,  a  bed  in  the 
caleche,  all  were  arranged ;  even  the  tragedy  of  fill 
ing  the  place  of  the  lost  boy  was  accomplished — as 
it  must  be,  for  her  passport  read  for  an  English 
woman  with  two  sons.  The  young  Marquis  Zappi, 
bearer  of  despatches  from  the  revolutionists  to 
Paris,  gladly  agreed  to  travel  with  them.  Suddenly 
Louis  collapsed.  He  had  been  dangerously  ill  for 
days,  but  had  borne  up  pluckily,  hiding  every  sign 
so  that  he  might  help  his  mother.  The  collapse  had 


158  THE    MARSHAL 

been  the  day  before,  and  the  doctor  had  promised 
that  twenty- four  hours'  rest  would  give  him  strength 
to  risk  the  journey  so  necessary  to  him. 

In  such  a  critical  state  were  the  affairs  of  the 
black-gowned  woman  who  gazed  from  the  palace 
windows  to  the  sea.  The  doctor  was  with  her  son. 
The  boy's  condition  seemed  to  her  no  better,  but 
worse  than  the  day  before;  she  waited  an  official 
verdict.  The  door  opened  and  she  looked  up  as  a 
tall  man  came  in. 

"Doctor,"  she  stammered  and  stopped — she 
feared  to  ask. 

"Your  Majesty,"  the  old  man  said  gravely,  "I 
grieve  to  be  the  bearer  of  bad  news." 

"He  is  worse,  Doctor?"  The  words  came  with  a 
gasp ;  she  felt  that  she  could  not  face  more  trouble. 

"Yes,  your  Majesty,  the  fever  has  increased  since 
yesterday.  With  his  youth  and  strength  we  may 
hope — if  he  is  carefully  nursed — but  to  move  him 
would  be  madness." 

Queen  Hortense  struck  her  hands  together. 
"What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  she  demanded, 
and  the  doctor  stood  gravely  regarding  her,  help 
less,  with  all  his  devotion  to  the  house  of  Bona 
parte,  to  suggest  a  way  out.  "If  he  stays  he  will  be 
taken — they  will  execute  him.  If  he  goes  he  will 


THE   MOTHER   OF   A    PRINCE      159 

die  on  the  way,"  she  cried  in  an  agony  of  indecision. 
"Doctor,  tell  me,  think  for  me — how  can  I  save 
him?" 

And  the  doctor  still  stood  silent,  suffering  with 
the  impotent  desire  to  help  her.  "If — if  only  the 
Austrians  might  think  that  the  Prince  were  gone," 
he  stammered,  and  hated  himself  for  the  futility  of 
the  words.  But  the  Queen  stood  with  a  hand  half 
lifted,  arrested.  Her  blue  eyes  were  alive  with  the 
crossing  and  weaving  of  swift  ideas,  and  then  with  a 
catch  of  her  breath  she  laughed  at  him  like  a  pleased 
child.  "Doctor,  you  are  a  very  clever  man,"  she  said. 
"Together  we  are  going  to  save  the  Prince." 

The  vivacity  of  the  schoolgirl  of  Madame  de 
Campan  flashed  for  a  moment  into  her  manner, 
warmed  to  sudden  life  by  the  joy  of  hope.  The 
doctor  waited,  enchanted,  bewildered,  to  hear  his 
cleverness  explained,  but  Hortense  did  always  the 
unexpected  thing.  She  shook  her  ringer  at  him. 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "At  least 
not  till  I  have  to — not  till  to-morrow  at  all  events. 
But  all  to-day,  as  you  visit  your  patients  you  may 
think  that  you  are  saving  the  Prince  from  his  ene 
mies — and  to-morrow  you  may  know  how.  Good- 
by,  Doctor,"  and,  puzzled  and  pleased,  the  physician 
was  gone. 


160  THE    MARSHAL 

"Send  Fritz  to  me,"  the  Queen  ordered,  and  a  mo 
ment  later  the  young  man  who  was  for  years  the 
confidential  servant  of  Hortense,  who  knew  more 
of  the  history  of  her  middle  years,  perhaps,  than 
any  other,  stood  before  her.  "Fritz,  when  does  a 
packet  sail  for  Corfu?"  she  demanded. 

Fritz  Rickenbach  considered  it  his  business  to 
know  everything.  "To-night,  your  Majesty,"  he  an 
swered  unhesitatingly. 

"You  will  see  that  the  luggage  of  Prince  Louis 
is  on  board,  and  that  a  carriage  is  ready  to  take  him 
there,"  she  ordered. 

"But  yes,  your  Majesty."  Fritz  still  stood  regard 
ing  her  seriously.  "It  is  a  great  happiness  to  me, 
your  Majesty,  that  his  Highness  is  well  enough  to 
travel." 

Fritz  knew  perfectly  that  there  was  a  complica 
tion  somewhere,  and  he  wanted  to  know  what  it 
was.  His  curiosity  was  patent,  but  his  deep  interest 
in  the  affairs  of  his  people  could  not  be  an  imperti 
nence,  and  the  Queen  smiled  at  him. 

"You  shall  know  about  it,  Fritz,"  she  said.  "The 
Austrians  are  coming.  The  Prince  can  not  be  moved. 
If  they  take  him,  it  means  death.  They  must  be 
lieve  that  he  is  gone,  and  it  is  for  you  and  me  to 
make  them  believe  it,  Fritz.  You  must  get  a  pass- 


THE    MOTHER    OF    A    PRINCE      161 

port  signed  by  all  of  the  authorities — that  is  easy 
to-day;  you  must  engage  his  place  in  the  packet  for 
to-night;  you  must  tell  the  servants — tell  every  one 
— that  the  Prince  goes  to  Corfu,  and  you  must  see 
that  the  proper  luggage  is  on  board.  It  will  be 
known  that  I  stay,  but  they  will  not  molest  an  ill 
woman.  Do  you  understand  the  plan,  Fritz?" 

"But  yes,  your  Majesty,"  Fritz  answered  with  his 
face  alight. 

And  so  the  packet  sailed  for  Corfu,  and  all  day 
before  the  sailing  the  servants  of  Hortense  moved 
busily  between  the  palace  and  the  boat,  carrying 
luggage  and  making  arrangements.  And  only  one 
or  two  knew  the  secret  that  Prince  Louis  Bonaparte 
had  not  sailed  in  the  packet,  but  lay  tossing  with 
fever  in  a  little  room  beyond  his  mother's,  carried 
there  for  greater  privacy  by  Fritz  and  the  doctor. 

Two  days  later,  as  the  Queen  sat  quietly  by  her 
boy's  bedside,  she  heard  that  the  vanguard  of  the 
Austrians  had  entered  the  city,  and  almost  at  once 
Fritz  came  to  tell  her  that  the  palace  in  which  she 
was  staying  had  been  chosen  for  the  residence  of 
the  general  commanding.  The  probability  of  this 
had  not  entered  her  mind;  it  seemed  the  last  straw. 
The  Austrian  officer  demanded  the  Queen's  own 
chamber  for  his  chief,  but  when  the  steward's  wife 


1 62  THE    MARSHAL 

told  him  the  name  of  the  lady  who  was  in  the  rooms 
which  had  not  been  given  up,  he  bowed  deeply  and 
said  not  a  word.  It  was  another  of  that  brotherhood 
scattered  over  Europe — the  friends  of  Hortense; 
it  was  an  officer  who  had  protected  her  years  before 
at  Dijon. 

So  for  a  week  they  lived  side  by  side  with  their 
enemies  and  only  a  few  feet  lay  between  the  Prince 
and  capture,  for  his  room  was  next  that  of  the 
Austrian  general,  with  but  a  double  door  between. 
It  was  a  life  of  momentary  anxiety,  for  the  Queen 
feared  each  time  the  invalid  spoke  that  they  might 
recognize  a  man's  voice;  when  he  coughed  she 
turned  white.  But  at  the  end  of  the  week  Louis 
was  at  last  well  enough  to  go.  He  was  to  leave 
Ancona  disguised  as  one  of  his  mother's  lackeys, 
the  young  Marquis  Zappi  was  to  put  on  another 
livery,  and  over  the  frontier  they  were  both  to 
change  and  be  the  sons  of  Hortense  traveling  on 
the  Englishman's  passport. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  RUSE 

THE  day  before  the  escape,  as  the  Prince,  weak 
and  ill  yet,  lay  in  bed,  word  was  brought  that 
a  messenger  of  the  marquis  wished  to  see  the  Queen. 

"Let  me  see  him  too,  my  mother,"  the  silent, 
grave,  young  man  begged.  "It  may  be  that  I  can 
help  you.  I  wish  to  help." 

In  a  moment  Fritz  introduced  a  slight  alert  per 
son  whose  delicate  face  was  made  remarkable  by  a 
pair  of  eyes  large  and  brilliant  and  full  of  visionary 
shadows,  yet  alive  with  fire.  One  saw  first  those 
uncommon  eyes  and  then  the  man.  If  they  had  not 
been  entirely  concerned  with  his  message  they  might 
have  remarked  that  he  trembled  as  he  looked  at  the 
Prince's  face;  that  his  voice  shook  as  he  answered 
the  Queen's  question. 

"I  have  the  unhappiness,  your  Majesty,  to  bring 
you  bad  news,"  he  said,  speaking  to  her,  but  still 
gazing  eagerly  at  the  Prince.  "The  Marquis  Zappi, 
my  employer,  is  ill.  He  was  taken  suddenly  last 

163 


1 64  THE    MARSHAL 

night,  and  to-day  is  much  worse,  and  there  is  no 
chance  that  he  can  travel  with  your  Majesty  to 
morrow." 

The  Queen  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
hopelessness.  "What  can  we  do?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Am  I  to  plan  and  plan  and  have  always  an  uncon 
querable  obstacle?  Can  I  not  save  my  boy?  I 
might  have  known  that  everything  seemed  too  bright 
this  morning,  too  good  to  be  true.  Yet  it  is  not 
possible  that  after  all  they  should" — she  looked  at 
her  son;  her  courage  came  springing  back.  "They 
shall  not  take  you,"  and  her  eyes  flashed  defiance  at 
a  world  of  enemies,  and  she  went  over  and  threw 
her  arm  about  his  neck.  "Louis,  don't  let  yourself 
be  excited,  dearest.  They  shall  not  take  you.  I  can 
save  you." 

It  was  as  if  she  put  a  spur  to  her  brain ;  there  was 
a  moment's  silence  and  the  two  lads  watched  her 
brows  drawing  together  under  the  concentration  of 
her  brain. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  laughed — a 
spontaneous  laughter  which  seemed  to  flood  her 
with  youthfulness.  She  turned  her  blue  glance 
swiftly  on  the  newcomer,  the  slender  boy  with  the 
luminous  eyes.  "You  are  in  the  employ  of  the  Mar 
quis  Zappi,  Monsieur?" 


THE   RUSE  165 

"But  yes,  your  Majesty.  I  am  the  secretary  of 
Monsieur  le  Marquis."  She  paused  a  second, 
seemed  to  take  stock  of  the  young  man,  of  his  looks, 
his  bearing,  his  accent. 

"You  are  French.  Have  you  a  sympathy  with 
the  family  of  my  son,  with  the  Bonapartes?" 

It  was  as  if  a  door  had  been  opened  into  a  fur 
nace,  so  the  eyes  blazed.  "Your  Majesty,  I  would 
give  my  life  for  his  Highness,"  he  said  quietly.  The 
impassive  face  of  the  young  Prince  turned  toward 
the  speaker,  and  the  half-shut  heavy  glance,  which 
had  the  Napoleonic  gift  of  holding  a  picture,  rested 
on  him  attentively.  Louis  Bonaparte  seemed  to  re 
member  something. 

"What  is  your  name,  Monsieur?"  he  asked,  and 
it  might  have  been  noticed  that  his  head  lifted  a 
little  from  the  pillow  as  he  waited  for  the  answer. 

"Francois  Beaupre,  Sire."  The  young  man 
seemed  to  be  out  of  breath.  "Sire!"  Louis  Napo 
leon  repeated.  And  then,  "I  have  seen  you  before. 
Where  was  it?  Not  in  Rome — not  in  Switzerland 
— ah!"  His  hand  flew  out,  and  with  that  Francois 
was  on  his  knee  by  the  bedside,  and  had  kissed  the 
outstretched  thin  fingers,  and  the  Prince's  other 
hand  was  on  his  shoulder  fraternally. 

"The  old   chateau   of   Vieques — my   playfellow, 


1 66  THE    MARSHAL 

Francois.  I  told  you  then  I  was  going  to  remem 
ber,  didn't  I  ?"  Louis  Napoleon  demanded,  laughing 
boyishly.  "Mother,  he  saved  my  life  from  the  fall 
ing  wall.  Do  you  remember  the  story  of  my  run 
away  trip?"  And  Hortense,  smiling,  delighted  to 
see  her  sad-faced  boy  so  pleased  and  exhilarated,  did 
remember,  and  was  gracious  and  grateful  to  the 
young  Frenchman.  "It  is  a  good  omen  to  have  you 
come  to  us  to-day,"  she  said  with  all  the  dazzling 
charm  which  she  knew  how  to  throw  into  a  sentence. 
And  then,  eager  with  the  headlong  zest  of  a  hunter 
for  the  game,  she  caught  the  thread  which  wove  into 
the  pattern  of  her  scheming.  "You  would  risk  some 
thing  to  save  him,  would  you  not?  You  will  take 
the  place  of  the  marquis  and  travel  with  us,  to 
morrow,  and  help  me  carry  away  the  Prince  to 
safety?" 

The  dark  young  face  was  pale.  "Your  Majesty, 
it  is  a  happiness  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  yet." 

"Yet?"  the  Prince  demanded  laconically.  He 
saved  words  always,  this  lad,  but  he  always  said  his 
thought. 

The  other  boy's  face  turned  to  him,  and  he  an 
swered  very  simply,  "But  yes,  your  Highness.  I 
have  known  always  that  I  should  have  a  part  in  your 
Highness'  fate." 


THE    RUSE  167 

Louis  Napoleon,  in  spite  of  practical  hard-work 
ing  qualities,  a  sentimentalist,  a  dreamer,  above  all 
a  man  dominated  by  a  destiny,  felt  a  quick  shrill. 
Unknown  forces  were  working  throughout  Europe 
to  place  him  one  day  on  his  uncle's  throne ;  such  was 
the  profound  belief  of  his  life.  Might  not  this 
man's  words,  electrical  with  sincerity,  point  to  his 
existence  as  one  of  those  forces?  It  was  as  if  he 
had  come  suddenly  on  deep  water  trickling  under 
ground  through  a  dry  country.  He  plunged  his 
hand  into  the  spring. 

"Tell  me,"  he  ordered. 

But  the  Queen  saw  only  the  vagaries  of  irrespon 
sible  boys  in  this  spasmodic  conversation ;  it  was 
important  to  arrange  matters ;  she  brushed  aside  the 
short  vague  sentences,  and  the  Prince,  a  flicker  of  a 
smile  on  his  grave  face,  was  silent. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  morning  there  was 
a  slight  stir  through  the  palace,  and  out  between  the 
lines  of  drowsy  Austrian  sentinels  passed  a  pro 
cession  of  whose  true  character  they  were  far  from 
aware,  else  history  had  changed.  The  guard 
watched  the  departure;  the  sick  lady — Hortense — 
late  Queen  of  Holland,  as  they  all  knew  more  or  less 
clearly,  drove  away  slowly  in  her  traveling  calcche, 
and  on  the  box  was  a  young  man  in  the  livery  of  a 


1 68  THE    MARSHAL 

groom  whom  no  one  of  the  half-awake  soldiers 
knew  for  Prince  Louis  Napoleon ;  in  the  middle  of 
the  second  carriage  sat  another  youth  of  two  or 
three  years  younger  who  was,  the  Queen's  servants 
had  been  told,  the  Marquis  Zappi.  Their  passports 
were  examined  and  they  went  through  the  .gates  of 
the  city  without  awakening  the  least  suspicion.  But 
Hortense,  as  she  lay  back  in  the  caleche,  felt  her 
heart  batter  against  its  covering  so  that  each  breath 
was  pain;  her  mouth  seemed  parched;  when  she 
tried  to  speak  the  words  would  not  come,  or  came 
in  gasps ;  it  seemed  an  agonizing  century  before  the 
city  gates  were  passed.  And  all  the  while  the  sick 
boy,  so  carefully  guarded  from  a  cold  breath  of  air 
for  days  back,  sat  outside  in  a  chilly  drizzle,  and 
his  mother's  anxiety  was  of  yet  another  sort  as  she 
felt  the  dampness  blow  in  upon  her  own  shelter. 
She  drew  a  sob  of  relief  as  they  gained  the  fields — 
yet  their  dangers  were  only  begun.  All  over  the 
country  which  they  were  about  to  cover  they  were 
known,  the  dethroned  Queen  and  her  two  sons,  and 
Louis  Napoleon's  immobile  young  face  was  of  an 
individuality  not  to  be  forgotten. 

Not  once  in  all  their  dramatic  series  of  escapes 
and  disguises  were  Hortense  and  her  sons  betrayed, 
but  they  had  to  fear  the  indiscretion  of  their  friends 


THE    RUSE  169 

more  than  the  malignity  of  their  enemies,  and  this 
part  of  Italy  was  full  of  friends  high  and  low. 

Over  and  over  again  they  were  recognized,  but 
mother  and  son  learned  to  trust  the  untiring  watch 
fulness,  the  ready  resources  of  the  Marquis  Zappi's 
understudy,  the  young  Frenchman  who  had  so  for 
tunately  and  easily  fitted  into  the  empty  place  on 
their  program.  The  great  dark  eyes,  smoldering 
with  unspoken  loyalty,  were  always  watching  the 
Prince,  and  he  saved  the  invalid's  strength  and  soft 
ened  the  hardships  of  travel  in  countless  ways;  no 
chance  seemed  to  escape  him.  Louis  Napoleon, 
living  an  intense  life  under  a  cold  and  reserved  ex 
terior,  responding  as  to  an  electric  wire,  to  every 
thread  of  incident  which  seemed  a  possible  fiber  in 
the  fabric  weaving,  he  believed,  for  him — the  fabric 
of  his  imperial  power — Louis  Napoleon  lost  none  of 
the  young  man's  devotion.  There  was  little  conver 
sation  between  them,  for  the  sick  boy,  often  in  great 
pain,  had  no  strength  to  spare  from  the  exciting  and 
strenuous  days,  where  adventure  and  escape  suc 
ceeded  adventure  and  escape,  where  each  step  meant 
danger,  and  each  turn  of  the  road  anxiety.  But  his 
heart  was  touched  with  a  gratitude  which  his  im 
passive  face  was  far  from  showing;  he  would  re 
member  his  old  playmate,  Francois  Beaupre. 


170  THE    MARSHAL 

At  length  it  was  time  for  Prince  Louis  and  the 
sham  marquis  to  drop  their  liveries  and  travel  as  the 
sons  of  the  English  woman  for  whom  their  passport 
was  made  out.  The  clothes  which  Beaupre  was  to 
wear  had  belonged  to  the  young  man  dead  at  Forli 
— Louis  Bonaparte's  brother — and  as  he  presented 
himself  dressed  in  them,  he  saw  the  painful  flush 
which  crept  upon  the  Prince's  face. 

"Your  Highness,  I  am  sorry,"  he  stammered. 
"It  is  grief  to  me."  And  then  he  threw  himself  im 
pulsively  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  Louis'  chair. 
"My  Prince,  I  wear  them  with  reverence,"  he  said, 
and  then,  hesitating,  he  added:  "Perhaps  I  would 
seem  less  unworthy  if  your  Highness  knew  that, 
mere  secretary  as  I  am,  I  am  yet  more.  I  am  noble. 
It  is  not  simple  Francois  Beaupre  whom  you  honor, 
but  a  man  created  Chevalier  by  the  sword  of  the 
Emperor." 

The  dull  eyes  of  the  Prince  shot  a  glance  between 
drooping  lids.  "What  is  it  you  mean,  Monsieur?" 
he  demanded.  But  at  the  moment  the  Queen  entered 
the  room,  and  the  lads  sprang  to  their  feet.  Her 
eyes  caught  the  picture  of  the  young  Frenchman  in 
his  new  dress  at  once;  they  opened  wide  and  then 
filled  with  tears. 

"Louis,  Louis!"  she  cried,  and  laid  her  hand  on 


THE    RUSE  171 

his  arm.  "He  looks  like  him;  he  looks  like  Na 
poleon!" 

And  the  brother,  considering,  saw  that  there  was 
a  certain  likeness,  in  the  alert  figure  and  the  dark 
pale  face.  From  that  on  Hortense  wished  Francois 
with  her  as  much  as  possible,  and  as  he  was  sup 
posed  to  be  her  son  it  was  natural  that  he  should  be. 
There  was  a  rushing  anxious  day  or  two,  a  frontier 
passed  in  the  middle  of  the  night  where  trouble 
with  a  sleepy  commissioner  almost  brought  disaster 
upon  them;  there  was  a  city  to  be  gone  through  in 
broad  daylight,  which  was  filled  with  traveling 
English,  any  one  of  whom  might  know  the  Queen ; 
there  was  a  foolish,  enthusiastic,  young  officer  who 
noisily  greeted  the  Prince  at  another  post;  there 
were  hairbreadth  escapes  everywhere.  At  length 
one  night,  in  the  valley  of  Chiana,  they  came  to  a 
quiet  little  village  where,  so  near  were  they  to 
safety,  it  seemed  prudent  to  take  a  night's  rest. 
After  this  new  luxury  the  party,  refreshed  and  en 
couraged,  breakfasted  together  the  next  morning. 

A  deferential  knock  sounded  at  the  door  of  the 
breakfast-room.  Francois  sprang  to  it,  and  the 
landlord  stood  in  the  opening,  bowing  elaborately — 
a  soldierly  old  man  with  thick  grizzled  hair. 

"A  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing  miladi  and 


172  THE    MARSHAL 

the  messieurs,"  and  miladi  smiled  forgiveness. 
"Might  an  old  soldier  of  the  Emperor  dare  to  say 
that  one  could  not  help  knowing  the  Emperor's 
kinsmen?"  He  bowed  low  again  to  both  boys  alike, 
and  again  Hortense  smiled  at  him.  It  was  comfort 
ing  to  know  that  the  two  seemed  brothers  to  the 
world  in  general,  and  she  was  so  used  to  recogni 
tion  and  loyalty  now  that  they  appeared  to  belong 
together.  "Might  an  old  soldier  of  the  Emperor 
dare  to  show  miladi — her  Majesty — and  the  High 
nesses,  the  sword  which  the  Emperor  himself  had 
touched,  the  sword  which  he,  Jean  Gredin,  an  old 
cuirassier  of  the  guard,  had  carried  in  four  bat 
tles?  There  was  a  little  story  of  the  sword,  a  story 
also  of  the  wonderful  goodness  of  the  Emperor, 
which  miladi — her  Majesty — permitting,  he  would 
like  to  tell  to  her,  as  also  to  the  Highnesses." 

And,  her  Majesty  permitting,  and  the  boys 
pleased  and  interested,  the  old  cavalryman  brought 
the  sword  and  drew  it  from  its  sheath  and  gave  it 
to  each  of  them  to  handle,  and  called  on  them  to 
remark  how  it  was  as  keen  and  bright  as  it  had  ever 
been  at  Ulm  or  Austerlitz.  He  cleared  his  throat, 
strongly,  for  the  tale. 

"Miladi — her  Majesty — permitting,"  he  began, 
"it  was  on  a  day  two  days  after  the  great  battle  of 


THE    RUSE  173 

Austerlitz.  The  country,  as  her  Majesty  and  the 
Highnesses  will  remember,  was  in  a  most  dangerous 
condition.  Desperate  bands — "  Why  was  it  the 
landlord  stopped  ? 

The  party,  caught  by  the  fervor  of  his  manner, 
stared  at  him,  annoyed  as  the  tale  of  the  Emperor, 
promising  so  well,  halted  at  its  beginning.  The 
man  stood  as  if  drawn  to  his  tiptoes,  every  muscle 
tense,  his  head  turned  toward  the  doorway,  listen 
ing. 

And  suddenly  they  were  aware  of  a  stir,  a  grow 
ing  noise ;  there  were  galloping  horses ;  there  was  a 
jingle  of  harness,  and  voices  coming  nearer.  With 
a  step  backward  the  landlord  flashed  a  glance  from 
under  bushy  brows  down  the  corridor,  through  the 
open  door  at  the  end,  which  gave  on  the  court  of 
the  inn. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  He  faced  the  three,  standing 
startled.  He  spoke  fast  and  low.  "Madame,  it  is 
a  squad  of  Austrian  soldiers;  they  are  upon  us. 
What  can  we  do?"  He  hesitated  only  a  second. 
"Bleu-bleu — my  horse — saddled  under  the  tree  yon 
der — if  one  of  the  Princes — if  the  Prince — "  He 
glanced  uncertainly  from  one  lad  to  the  other. 

But  the  game  was  out  of  his  hands.  Quicker 
hands  than  his  had  caught  the  play.  Francois 


174  THE    MARSHAL 

Beaupre,  the  saber  of  the  old  cavalryman  gleaming 
in  his  grasp,  sprang  to  the  doorway.  He  swung 
about,  his  great  eyes  radiating  earnestness. 

"It  is  Monsieur  there  who  is  the  Prince,"  he  ex 
plained  rapidly  to  the  landlord.  "Hide  him,  take 
care  of  him — I  will  draw  them  away.  When  they 
are  gone,  see  that  the  Prince  and  the  Queen  escape. 
That  is  for  you;  you  are  responsible." 

There  was  the  rush  of  a  flying  figure  down  the 
hallway,  and  out  Franqois  flashed  across  a  broken 
line  of  a  dozen  dismounted  riders,  straight  toward 
the  landlord's  horse  held  by  a  groom  under  the 
trees.  There  was  a  shock  of  startled  silence  as  the 
impetuous  apparition,  saber  gleaming  at  wrist,  shot 
across  the  court.  Then  there  was  a  hubbub  of 
voices,  and  a  mass  of  uniformed  figures  fell  toward 
him  as  he  threw  himself  on  the  horse.  A  soldier 
caught  at  the  bridle.  The  naked  sword  twinkled 
and  the  man  was  under  Bleu-bleu's  feet.  For  a 
second  there  was  a  vortex  of  men  and  a  frantic 
horse,  and  riding  the  storm  a  buoyant  figure  of 
fury,  flashing  a  blade,  with  infinite  swiftness,  this 
way  and  that.  Then  horse  and  lad  shot  out  from  the 
living  canvas,  streaked  the  background  of  trees  a 
second  and  were  gone,  and  the  Austrian  troopers 
scrambled  into  their  saddles  to  follow. 


THE    RUSE  175 

Through  sun-spotted,  breeze-tossed  woods  tore 
the  chase;  across  a  road  and  over  a  low  fence,  and 
still  Francois  led,  but  the  heavy  horses  gained.  It 
was  a  hopeless  hunt,  for  the  landlord's  mount  was 
no  match  for  the  big  cavalry  horses,  yet  the  rider's 
light  weight  and  clever  horsemanship  counted,  and 
it  was  fully  four  miles  from  the  inn  when  Bleu-bleu 
stumbled  and  fell  at  a  ditch,  and  Francois  pitched 
over  his  head.  His  lead  was  short  by  now,  and  they 
were  on  him  in  a  moment,  in  a  mass ;  he  was  seized 
by  a  dozen  burly  Austrians. 

The  leader  took  a  sharp  look  at  him  as  he  stood 
panting,  staring  defiantly. 

"What  is  this?"  the  Austrian  demanded  sternly, 
and  wheeled  to  a  trooper  in  a  bunch.  "Friedrich, 
thou  knowest  the  cub  of  the  Bonapartes.  Is  this 
lad  he?" 

And  Friedrich  lunged  forward,  gasping,  for  he 
had  run  his  horse  hard,  and  shook  his  head.  "No, 
my  captain.  I  have  never  seen  this  one." 

The  boy  looked  from  one  to  another  of  the  threat 
ening  group,  smiling,  composed  in  spite  of  his  quick 
breathing.  The  captain  took  a  step  close  to  him  and 
shook  his  fist  in  his  face. 

"You  have  fooled  us,  you  young  game-cock,  have 
you  ?  But  wait.  Do  you  know  what  we  will  do  to 


176  THE   MARSHAL 

you,  you  bantam  of  a  Frenchman?  Do  you  know 
how  we  will  treat  you  for  this,  we  Austrians?" 

Color  deepened  in  his  cheeks,  and  Frangois  drew 
up  his  figure  magnificently.  His  face  was  radiant ; 
he  gloried  in  the  theatrical  beauty  of  the  situation; 
for  the  rest,  he  was,  as  the  villagers  of  Vieques  had 
said  long  ago,  born  without  fear. 

"You  may  do  what  you  like,  Messieurs,"  he  said 
gaily.  "It  is  for  you;  my  part  is  done.  The  Prince 
is  safe." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

AFTER   FIVE  YEARS 

THE  window  of  the  cell  was  small,  but  it  was 
low  enough  so  that  a  man  standing  could  see 
from  it  the  vast  sky  and  the  sea-line  six  miles  away, 
and,  by  leaning  close  to  the  bars,  the  hill  that  sloped 
down  into  wooded  country ;  beyond  that  the  sand  of 
the  shore.  The  jailer  stood  close  by  the  little  win 
dow  in  the  stormy  sunset  for  a  better  light  as  he 
dropped  the  medicine. 

"One — two,"  he  counted  the  drops  carefully  up  to 
nine,  and  then  glanced  at  the  prisoner  on  his  cot  in 
the  corner,  who  tossed,  and  talked  rapidly,  disjoint- 
edly.  "It  is  high  time  that  the  doctor  saw  him,"  the 
jailer  spoke,  half  aloud.  "If  the  governor  had  been 
here  this  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  run  on. 
I  am  glad  the  governor  is  coming  back." 

With  that  the  prisoner  threw  off  the  cover  from 
his  shoulders  and  sat  up  suddenly,  with  wild  bright 
eyes  staring  at  the  jailer. 

"Pietro!"  he  called  in  astonishment.  "Why,  my 
177 


178  THE   MARSHAL 

dear  old  Pietro!"  and  flung  out  his  hands  eagerly 
toward  the  man,  and  would  have  sprung  from  the 
bed  to  him. 

But  the  jailer  was  at  his  side  and  held  him  down, 
yet  gently.  "Be  quiet,  Signor,"  he  said  respectfully. 
"It  is  only  old  Battista;  you  will  see  if  you  look. 
Only  Battista,  who  has  taken  care  of  you  these  five 
years." 

The  brilliant  dark:  eyes  stared  at  him  hungrily; 
then  with  a  sigh  the  light  went  out  of  them  and  the 
head  fell  on  the  pillow. 

"Ah,  Battista,"  he  said,  "my  good  Battista."  A 
smile  full  of  a  subtle  charm  made  the  worn  face 
bright.  He  spoke  slowly.  "I  thought  it  was  my 
friend — my  best  friend,"  he  explained  gently. 

"Will  the  Signor  take  the  doctor's  medicine?" 
Battista  asked  then,  not  much  noticing  the  words, 
for  the  sick  man  was  clearly  light-headed,  yet  with 
a  certain  pleasant  throb  of  memory  which  always 
moved  within  him  at  the  name  of  Pietro.  It  hap 
pened  that  the  name  stood  for  some  one  dear  to  the 
jailer  also.  The  signer  took  the  medicine  at  once, 
like  a  good  child. 

"Will  it  make  me  better,  do  you  think,  Battista?" 
he  asked  earnestly. 

"But  yes,  Signor;  the  doctor  is  clever." 


AFTER    FIVE    YEARS  179 

"I  want  to  be  better;  I  must  get  well,  for  I  have 
work  to  do  as  soon  as  I  come  out  of  prison." 

"Surely,  Signer.  That  will  be  soon  now,  I  think, 
for  it  is  five  years ;  they  will  let  you  go  soon,  I  be 
lieve,"  Battista  lied  kindly. 

Yet  he  knew  well  how  the  Austrian  tyrants  left 
men  for  a  little  thing,  for  a  suspicion,  for  nothing, 
lying  in  dungeons  worse  than  this  for  three  times 
five  years.  It  was  a  mere  chance,  he  had  heard,  that 
this  young  signor  had  not  been  sent  to  Spielberg 
instead  of  this  place;  to  horrible  Spielberg,  where 
one  might  see  high-bred  nobles  of  Italy  chained  to 
felons,  living  in  underground  cells.  Battista  shud 
dered.  He  had  come  to  have  a  great  affection  for 
this  prisoner;  he  trembled  at  the  thought  that  some 
caprice  of  those  in  power  might  send  him  even  yet 
to  Spielberg.  Moreover — Battista  hardly  dared 
think  it  in  his  heart,  but  he  himself  was  Italian — a 
patriot.  And  behold  him,  jailer  to  a  man  who  was 
suffering — he  believed — for  the  patriot  cause.  His 
soul  longed  to  help  him,  yet  he  was  afraid,  horribly 
afraid,  even  to  be  too  gentle  with  his  prisoner.  It 
was  an  off  chance  that  had  left  him  here,  Battista 
Serrani,  in  the  castle  of  his  old  masters,  after  the 
castle  had  been  confiscated  by  the  Austrians,  to  be 
used  by  them  as  a  prison.  But  what  could  he  do? 


180  THE    MARSHAL 

He  was  a  poor  man;  he  had  a  wife  and  children  to 
think  of;  his  knowledge  of  the  place  had  been  useful 
at  first  to  the  new  lords,  and  then  they  had  seen 
that  he  was  hard-working  and  close-mouthed,  and 
had  kept  him  on  till  they  had  forgotten,  it  seemed, 
that  he  was  Italian  at  all.  So  here  he  was,  set  to 
guard  men  whom  he  would  give  his  life  to  make 
free.  But  the  masters  knew  well  and  he  knew  that 
it  meant  more  than  his  life  to  be  disloyal — it  meant 
the  lives  of  his  wife  and  children.  There  would  be 
small  pity  for  such  as  Battista  when  great  noblemen 
were  treated  like  felons.  So  Battista  was  trusted  as 
if  he  were  Austrian  born. 

All  this  flashed  through  his  mind  as  he  gazed 
pitifully  at  the  sick  prisoner,  only  just  out  of  boy 
hood,  yet  with  that  band  of  white  hair,  the  badge  of 
his  captivity,  in  the  thick  brown  thatch  of  his  head. 
He  lay  very  still  now,  as  if  his  tossing  were  all 
finished,  his  face  turned  to  the  wall ;  Battista,  soft 
hearted,  cautious,  stopped  to  look  at  him  a  moment 
before  going  out.  As  he  looked  the  dark  head 
turned  swiftly  and  the  bright  big  eyes  met  his  with  a 
light  not  delirious,  yet  not  quite  of  every-day  reason. 

"You  are  good  to  me,  Battista,"  the  boy  said, 
"and  just  now  you  gave  me  a  great  pleasure.  It 
warms  me  yet  to  think  of  it,  for,  you  see,  I  thought 


AFTER   FIVE   YEARS  181 

you   were   Pietro — my   dear   Pietro — the   Marquis 
Zappi." 

Battista,  breathless,  stared,  stammered.  "Whom 
— whom  did  you  say,  Signor?" 

But  the  prisoner  had  flashed  into  reason.  The 
color  went  out  of  his  face  as  the  tide  ebbs.  "Bat 
tista,  did  I  say  a  name  ?  Battista — you  will  not  be 
tray  me — you  will  not  repeat  that  name  ?  I  would 
never  have  said  it  but  that  I  was  not  quite  steady. 
I  must  have  been  out  of  my  head;  I  have  never 
spoken  his  name  before  in  this  place.  Oh,  if  I 
should  bring  danger  to  him!  Battista,  for  God's 
sake,  you  will  not  repeat  that  name  ?" 

Battista  spoke  low,  glancing  at  the  heavy  iron 
door  of  the  cell.  "God  forbid,  Signor,"  he  whis 
pered,  "that  I  should  speak,  here  in  his  own  castle, 
the  name  of  my  young  master." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  prisoner  and  his 
jailer  gazed  at  each  other  as  if  saying  things  be 
yond  words.  Then  the  boy  put  out  his  long  hot 
fingers  and  caught  the  man's  sleeve. 

"Battista,"  he  murmured,  "Battista — is  that  true  ? 
Is  it  possible?  Do  you  know — my  Pietro?" 

"Know  him,  Signor?"  Battista's  deep  voice  was 
unsteady.  "My  fathers  have  served  his  for  eight 
hundred  years."  The  man  was  shaking  with  a 


1 82  THE   MARSHAL 

loyalty  long  pent  up,  but  Francois  lifted  his  head, 
leaned  on  his  elbow,  and  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"But,  Battista,  I  know  you  now ;  he  has  spoken  to 
me  of  you;  it  was  your  son,  the  little  Battista,  who 
was  his  body-servant  when  they  were  children?" 

"Yes,  Signer." 

"I  did  not  dream  of  it;  I  never  knew  what  castle 
this  was;  I  never  dreamed  of  Castelforte;  you 
would  not  tell  me." 

"I  could  not,  Signer.  It  was  forbidden.  It  is  for 
bidden.  I  am  risking  my  life  every  minute." 

"Go,  Battista,"  and  Frangois  pushed  him  away 
with  weak  hands.  "Go  quickly — you  have  been  here 
too  long.  There  might  be  suspicion.  I  could  not 
live  if  I  brought  trouble  on  you." 

"It  is  right  so  far,  Signer,"  Battista  answered. 
"It  is  known  you  are  ill;  I  must  care  for  the  sick 
ones  a  little.  But  I  had  better  go  now." 

With  that  he  slipped  to  his  knees  and  lifted  the 
feverish  hands  to  his  lips.  "The  friend  of  my  young 
master,"  he  said  simply,  but  his  voice  broke  on  the 
words.  The  traditional  faithfulness  of  centuries 
was  strong  in  Battista;  the  Zappis  had  been  good 
masters;  one  had  been  cared  for  and  contented  al 
ways;  one  was  terrorized  and  ground  down  by 
these  "Austrian  swine";  the  memory  of  the  old 


AFTER    FIVE    YEARS  183 

masters,  the  personality  of  any  one  connected  with 
them,  was  sacred.  Battista  bowed  his  head  over  the 
hands  in  his  own,  then  he  stood  up. 

"I  shall  be  back  at  bedtime,  Signor,"  he  said 
quietly,  and  was  gone. 

But  Francois  had  an  ally  now,  and  he  knew  it. 
The  excitement  of  the  thought,  the  joy  of  dim  pos 
sible  results  buoyed  his  high-strung  temperament 
like  a  tonic.  He  must  be,  he  would  be  careful  be 
yond  words  to  guard  against  any  danger,  any  suspi 
cion  for  Battista,  but —  There  were  chances  even 
with  that  provision.  Here  was  hope.  It  is  neces 
sary,  perhaps,  to  have  been  five  years  a  prisoner  in  a 
cell  in  an  unknown  castle  in  a  foreign  land  to  know 
what  the  first  glimpse  of  hope  may  mean. 

Instantly,  with  the  hope  working  in  him,  he  began 
to  get  well.  Little  by  little,  watching  fearfully 
against  the  peril  of  conversations  long  enough  to 
seem  suspicious  to  eyes  always  alert,  he  told  Battista 
of  the  close  friendship  of  the  chateau  in  France,  of 
the  splendid  old  officer  of  Napoleon  and  of  his 
daughter,  the  beautiful  demoiselle,  who  was  Alixe; 
of  the  years  at  school  together,  the  boyish  adven 
tures  innumerable.  Every  word  Battista  drank  in; 
he  had  not  seen  the  young  marquis  since  he  had  left 
Castelforte  with  his  father  on  the  journey  which 


184  THE    MARSHAL 

took  them  to  Vieques.  When,  at  the  end  of  his 
school-days,  the  boy  of  eighteen  had  come  back  to 
his  country,  the  castle  had  already  been  seized  by 
the  Austrians,  and  it  had  not  been  safe  for  Pietro  to 
come  into  his  own  country.  But  the  man's  memory 
of  his  little  lord  was  vivid  and  loving;  he  listened 
eagerly  to  the  least  detail  of  his  unknown  older  life. 

And  day  by  day  the  prisoner  who  could  tell  him 
such  things,  who  was  the  friend  of  his  master,  who 
had  lived  with  his  master,  became  more  of  an  idol 
to  him,  stood  to  him  more  and  more  in  the  place  of 
the  marquis.  From  the  beginning  of  the  imprison 
ment  he  had  had  an  affection  for  this  young  stran 
ger;  few  people  ever  came  under  the  influence  of 
Frangois  without  having  an  affection  for  him;  but 
the  day  of  his  mention  of  Pietro  had  made  Battista 
his  slave. 

A  person  of  more  importance  than  Battista  had 
fallen  under  the  spell  of  Francois'  personality.  The 
governor  himself  had  been  attracted  by  the  young 
Frenchman.  The  governor,  Count  von  Gersdorf, 
was  a  vain,  discontented,  brilliant  Austrian,  at  odds 
with  the  world  because  he  had  not  risen  further  in 
it.  He  was  without  society  in  this  mountain  fortress 
of  his,  and  longed  for  it;  he  had  a  fine  voice  and  no 
one  to  sing  to;  he  liked  to  talk  and  had  no  one  to 


AFTER    FIVE   YEARS  185 

talk  to.  Frangois,  with  his  ready  friendliness,  with 
his  gift  of  finding  good  in  every  one,  with  his  win 
ning  manner  and  simplicity  which  had  the  ease  of 
sophistication,  was  a  treasure-trove  of  amusement 
to  the  bored  Austrian.  Moreover,  Francois  could 
play  a  guitar  and  accompany  his  songs,  and  knew 
enough  music  to  appreciate  the  governor's  really 
beautiful  voice;  his  delight  in  it  was  better  than  the 
most  finished  flattery.  He  had  taught  the  governor 
French  songs;  they  sang  together,  and  the  count 
roared  them  out  and  then  roared  with  laughter,  and 
Francois  smiled  and  was  pleased.  It  had  come  to 
be  a  custom  with  the  governor,  during  the  last  two 
years,  to  have  the  Frenchman  brought  down  very 
often  to  his  room  for  dinner,  and  to  spend  the 
evening.  All  this  was  against  regulations — but  who 
was  to  know?  The  count  was  lord  of  life  and  death 
at  Castel forte,  and  if  higher  powers  came  once  in  a 
year  or  two,  no  one  would  dare  to  speak  of  the 
doings  of  the  governor  except  the  governor. 

Things  stood  so  with  the  prisoner  at  the  time  of 
his  discovery  of  the  identity  of  his  jailer  and  of  his 
jail.  The  governor  at  that  time  was  away  on  a  visit 
to  Vienna,  looking  for  a  promotion;  he  came  back 
elated  and  good-humored  in  the  prospect  of  a  change 
within  the  year.  But  the  heart  of  Frangois  sank  as 


1 86  THE    MARSHAL 

he  thought  what  the  change  might  mean  to  him. 
This  man  had  treated  him  with  unhoped  favor  in 
some  ways.  He  realized  what  it  meant  to  reason 
and  health  to  have  those  evenings  away  from  his 
narrow  cold  cell,  even  in  such  company  as  the 
governor's.  Besides  which  Frangois  persistently 
found  good  qualities  in  the  governor.  He  had  been 
allowed  books  to  read  in  his  cell,  though  no  writing 
materials.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  had  been  in 
some  ways  a  happy  life.  The  mystical  thoughtful 
bent  of  the  boy  had  developed  in  the  great  quiet 
loneliness ;  with  the  broad  Italian  sky  and  the  sound 
of  the  sea  in  his  constant  companionship,  his  mind 
had  grown  to  a  grasp  of  the  greatness  of  living  and 
the  smallness  of  life.  A  vista  of  thought  before 
unknown  had  opened  out  to  him  in  the  long  solitary 
days.  When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  let  him 
self  be  floated  out  on  a  tide  of  meditation  where 
strange  bright  visions  met  him  like  islands  in  a 
southern  ocean.  He  looked  forward  to  these 
thoughts  as  to  events,  as  a  mystic  of  India  looks  to 
Nirvana. 

In  the  light  of  this  happiness  of  prison,  the  hard 
ships  of  prison,  the  drain  on  his  health  from  damp 
ness  and  lack  of  air  and  poor  food  were  small  dis 
comforts,  hardly  to  be  noticed  in  the  greatness  of 


AFTER    FIVE   YEARS  187 

his  blessings.  These  trials  would  be  over  shortly; 
the  real  things,  friendship,  love,  enthusiasm,  were 
eternal.  Moreover,  it  was  action  he  dreamed,  not 
quiescence,  as  he  looked  from  the  barred  window  at 
the  vast  blue  depths  of  Italian  sky,  depths  pro- 
founder,  more  transparent  than  elsewhere.  His  be 
lief  in  his  star,  in  its  fusion  some  day  to  come  into 
the  larger  star  of  the  Bonapartes,  had  been  strength 
ened,  fixed,  by  the  adventure  which  had  landed  him 
in  the  desolation  of  an  Austrian  prison.  He  had 
saved  the  Prince's  life;  it  was  an  omen  of  greater 
things  which  he  should  do  for  the  Prince.  If  no 
more  came  of  it  he  would  have  done  his  part;  he 
could  die  happy,  but  he  believed  without  a  shadow 
of  doubt  that  more  was  to  come. 

"  'Some  day  a  Marshal  of  France  under  another 
Bonaparte,'  "  he  said  to  himself  one  day,  staring 
through  the  bars  at  his  meadow — he  called  the  sky 
so.  He  smiled.  "But  that  is  nothing.  To  help 
place  my  Prince  on  the  throne  of  France — that  is 
my  work — my  life." 

He  talked  aloud  at  times,  as  prisoners  come  to  do. 
He  went  on  then,  in  a  low  voice. 

"If  there  were  good  fairies,  if  I  had  three  wishes : 
Alixe — the  Prince  made  Emperor — Francois  Beau- 
pre,  a  Marshal  of  France."  He  laughed  happily.  "It 


1 88  THE    MARSHAL 

is  child's  play.  Nothing  matters  except  that  my  life 
shall  do  its  work.  Even  that  is  so  small ;  but  I  have 
a  great  desire  to  do  that.  I  believe  I  shall  do  that--- 
I  know  it."  And  he  fell  to  work  on  a  book  which 
he  was  planning,  chapter  by  chapter,  in  his  brain. 

But,  if  he  were  to  escape  ever,  the  chance  was 
increased  infinitely  by  the  going  back  and  forth  to 
the  governor's  room.  A  new  governor  might  keep 
him  shut  up  absolutely.  It  had  been  so  while  the 
count  was  away;  then  he  had  been  ill,  and  the  lieu 
tenant  in  command  would  not  let  a  doctor  see  him 
till  he  became  delirious ;  that  was  the  ordinary  treat 
ment  of  prisoners.  Francois,  thinking  over  these 
things  on  a  day,  felt,  with  a  sudden  accent  on  the 
steady  push  of  his  longing  for  freedom,  the  convic 
tion  that  he  must  get  free  before  the  count  left,  else 
opportunity  and  force  for  the  effort  would  both  be 
gone  forever.  And  on  that  day  Battista  brought 
in  his  midday  meal  with  a  look  and  a  manner  which 
Francois  remarked. 

"What  is  it,  Battista?"  he  asked  softly. 

The  man  answered  not  a  word,  but  turned  and 
opened  the  door  rapidly  and  looked  out.  "I  thought 
I  had  left  the  water-pitcher.  Ah,  here  it  is — I  am 
stupid,"  he  spoke  aloud.  And  then,  ringer  on  lip 
dramatically,  he  bent  over  the  young  man.  "My 


AFTER    FIVE   YEARS  189 

son — the  little  Battista — has  had  a  letter.  The 
young  master  wishes  him  to  come  to  him  in  France, 
to  serve  him.  He  is  going  in  two  days." 

It  was  whispered  quickly,  and  Battista  stood 
erect. 

"The  Signer's  food  will  get  cold  if  the  Signor 
does  not  eat  it,"  he  spoke  gruffly.  "I  do  not  like  to 
carry  good  food  for  prisoners  who  do  not  appreci 
ate  it.  I  shall  bring  less  to-morrow." 

But  Francois,  hardly  hearing  the  surly  tones,  had 
his  hand  on  Battista's  arm,  was  whispering  back 
eagerly. 

"Where  does  he  go,  in  France?" 

"To  Vieques,"  the  low  answer  came.  Franqois 
sank  back,  tortured. 

Going  to  Vieques,  the  little  Battista!  From 
Castelforte!  And  he,  Frangois,  must  stay  here  in 
prison !  His  soul  was  wrung  with  a  sudden  wild 
homesickness.  He  wanted  to  see  Alixe,  to  see  his 
mother,  to  see  the  general;  to  see  the  peaceful  little 
village  and  the  stream  that  ran  through  it,  and  the 
steep-arched  bridge,  and  the  poppy  fields,  and  the 
corn!  The  gray  castle  with  its  red  roofs,  and  the 
beech  wood,  and  the  dim,  high-walled  library,  how 
he  wanted  to  see  it  all!  How  his  heart  ached, 
madly,  fiercely!  This  was  the  worst  moment  of  all 


190  THE    MARSHAL 

his  captivity.  And  with  that,  Battista  was  over  him, 
was  murmuring  words  again.  Something  was 
slipped  under  the  bedclothes. 

'Taper — pens.  The  Signor  will  write  a  letter  this 
afternoon.  And  to-morrow  little  Battista  will  take 
it." 

And  the  heart  of  Frangois  gave  a  sudden  throb  of 
joy  as  wild  as  its  anguish.  He  could  speak  to  them 
before  he  died;  it  might  be  they  could  save  him. 
His  hands  stole  to  the  package  under  the  coarse 
blanket.  It  seemed  as  if  in  touching  it  he  touched 
his  mother  and  his  sweetheart  and  his  home. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

GOOD    NEWS 

IN  the  garden  of  the  chateau  of  Vieques,  where 
the  stiff,  gray  stone  vases  spilled  again  their 
heart's  blood  of  scarlet  and  etching  of  vines ;  where 
the  two  stately  lines  of  them  led  down  to  the  sun 
dial  and  the  round  lawn — on  one  of  the  griffin- 
supported  stone  seats  Alixe  and  Pietro  sat,  where 
Alixe  and  Frangois  had  sat  five  years  before. 

Alixe,  again  in  her  dark  riding-habit,  with  the 
blue  feather  in  her  hat  and  the  gauntleted  hands, 
was  grown  from  an  exquisite  slip  of  a  girl  into  a 
woman  more  lovely  than  the  girl.  Her  eyes,  when 
she  lifted  the  long,  exaggerated,  curled  lashes,  held 
fire  and  force,  and  knowledge  of  suffering,  it  might 
be,  under  their  steady  smile,  but  held  all  these  in 
control.  This  was  a  woman  able  not  only  to  endure 
things,  which  is  the  gift  of  most  women,  but  to  do 
things.  Pietro,  his  big  arm  stretched  along  the 
back  of  the  stone  seat,  watched  her — as  Pietro  had 
watched  her  always.  It  seemed  never  to  trouble  her 

191 


192  THE    MARSHAL 

to  turn  and  find  his  honest  eyes  fixed  calmly  on  her 
face.  Pietro,  whose  illness  at  Ancona  had  put 
Francois  into  his  place  in  the  escape  of  Louis  Na 
poleon,  had  put  Francois  in  his  place  as  the 
prisoner  of  Austria  now  these  five  years — Pietro 
had  managed  to  get  away  from  Italy  and  had  joined 
Queen  Hortense  and  her  son  before  they  entered 
Paris.  Both  the  Prince  and  Pietro  had  moved 
heaven  and  earth  to  find  out  the  fate  of  Frangois. 
That  he  had  -been  taken  by  the  Austrian  squad  at 
the  end  of  his  wild  ride  they  knew.  More  than  this 
they  could  not  discover,  except  that  one  or  two 
things  pointed  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been 
immediately  executed.  The  Prince  believed  this, 
and  Pietro  came  to  believe  it.  But  Alixe  had  never 
believed  it. 

In  these  five  years  Pietro  had  not  been  back  to 
Italy;  the  "inevitable  Austrians"  had  put  down  in 
1831  the  revolution  in  the  Romagna,  the  rising  in 
which  Prince  Louis  and  Pietro,  the  Marquis  Zappi, 
had  taken  part.  In  the  war-torn  country  no  move 
ments  of  any  importance  had  taken  place  since  that. 
Pietro,  a  Carbonaro,  a  member  of  "young  Italy",  a 
marked  man,  was  not  safe  inside  the  Italian  frontier. 
With  other  patriots  he  awaited  in  a  foreign  country 
the  day  when  he  might  go  back  to  fight  again  for  a 


GOOD    NEWS  193 

united  Italy.  In  the  meantime  he  conspired,  planned, 
worked  continually  for  the  patriot  cause,  and  as 
continually  he  tried,  though  now  without  hope,  to 
find  a  trace  of  Franqois.  The  boy  who  had  dashed 
through  the  Austrian  soldiers  on  that  morning  at 
Chiana,  and  leaped  to  the  landlord's  horse  and 
cleared  his  way  through  with  the  play  of  the  old 
soldier's  sword,  and  led  a  wild  race,  to  fall  into  the 
enemy's  hands  at  last — the  boy  had  disappeared 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  Pietro,  grieving  deeply 
for  his  old  friend,  grieving  bitterly  because  it  was 
in  filling  his  place  that  Frangois  had  met  his  fate, 
believed  him  dead.  But  Alixe  did  not  believe  it. 
Pietro  was  often  at  Vieques  now,  and  the  two  went 
over  the  question  again  and  again.  One  might  not 
speak  to  the  general  of  Francois;  the  blow  had  been 
heavy,  and  the  old  soldier's  wound  had  not  closed; 
it  might  not  be  touched.  But  Pietro  and  Alixe  spoke 
of  him  constantly. 

To-day,  as  they  sat  in  the  garden,  they  had  been 
going  over  the  pros  and  cons  of  his  life  or  death  for 
the  thousandth  time.  Pietro's  quiet  gray  eyes  were 
sad  as  he  looked  away  from  Alixe  and  across  the 
lawn  to  the  beech  wood. 

"God  knows  I  would  give  my  life  quickly  if  I 
could  see  him  coming  through  the  trees  there,  as  we 


194  THE    MARSHAL 

used  to  see  him,  mornings  long  ago,  in  his  patched 
homespun  clothes." 

Alixe  followed  the  glance  consideringly,  as  if 
calling  up  the  little,  brown,  trudging  figure  so  well 
remembered.  Then  she  tossed  up  her  head  sharply 
—  "Who  ?"  —  and  then  she  laughed.  "I  shall  be  see 
ing  visions  next,  like  Francois,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  it  was  he  —  back  in  the  beech  wood." 

"I  see  no  one."    Pietro  stared. 

"But  you  have  no  eyes,  Pietro  —  I  can  always  see 
a  thing  two  minutes  before  you,"  Alixe  threw  at 
him.  "There  —  the  man." 

"Oh,"  said  Pietro.  "Your  eyes  are  more  than 
natural,  Alixe.  You  see  into  a  wood;  that  is  un 
canny.  Yes,  I  see  him  now.  Mon  Dieu!  he  is  a  big 
fellow." 

"A  peasant  —  from  some  other  village,"  Alixe 
spoke  carelessly.  "I  do  not  know  him,"  and  they 
went  on  talking,  as  they  had  been  doing,  of  Fran- 


And  with  that,  here  was  Jean  Phillippe  Moison, 
forty  now  and  fat,  but  still  beautiful  in  purple  mil 
linery,  advancing  down  the  stone  steps  between  the 
tall  gray  vases,  making  a  symphony  of  color  with 
the  rich  red  of  the  flowers.  He  held  a  silver  tray;  a 
letter  was  on  it. 


GOOD    NEWS  195 

"For  Mademoiselle." 

Mademoiselle  took  it  calmly  and  glanced  at  it, 
and  with  that  both  the  footman  and  the  Marquis 
Zappi  were  astonished  to  see  her  fall  to  shivering, 
as  if  in  a  sudden  illness.  She  caught  Pietro's  arm. 
The  letter  was  clutched  in  her  other  hand  thrust 
back  of  her. 

"Pietro!" 

"What  is  it,  Alixe?"  His  voice  was  quiet  as  ever, 
but  his  hand  was  around  her  shaking  fingers,  and  he 
held  them  strongly.  "What  is  it,  Alixe?" 

She  drew  forward  the  other  hand;  the  letter 
shook,  rustled  with  her  trembling.  "It  is — from 
Franqois!" 

Jean  Phillippe  Moison,  having  stayed  to  listen,  as 
he  ought  not,  lifted  his  eyes  and  his  hands  to  heaven 
and  gave  thanks  in  a  general  way,  volubly,  unre- 
buked.  By  now  the  unsteady  fingers  of  Alixe  had 
opened  the  paper,  and  her  head  and  Pietro's  were 
bent  over  it,  devouring  the  well-known  writing. 
Alixe,  excited,  French,  exploded  into  a  disjointed 
running  comment. 

"From  prison — our  Francois — dear  Francois!" 
And  then:  "Five  years,  Pietro!  Think — while  we 
have  been  free!"  And  then,  with  a  swift  clutch 
again  at  the  big  coat  sleeve  crowding  against  her: 


196  THE   MARSHAL 

"Pietro !  See,  see !  The  date — it  is  only  two  months 
ago.  He  was  alive  then;  he  must  be  alive  now;  he 
is !  I  knew  it,  Pietro !  A  woman  knows  more  things 
than  a  man." 

With  that  she  threw  up  her  head  and  fixed  Jean 
Phillippe,  drinking  in  all  this,  with  an  unexpected 
stern  glance.  "What  are  you  doing  here,  Moison? 
What  manners  are  these?"  Then,  relapsing  in  a 
flash  into  pure  human  trust  and  affection  toward  the 
anxious  old  servant :  "My  dear,  old,  good  Moison — 
he  is  alive — Monsieur  Frangois  is  alive — in  a  hor 
rible  prison  in  Italy!  But  he  is  alive,  Moison!" 
And  with  that,  a  sudden  jump  again  into  dignity. 
"Who  brought  this,  Moison  ?" 

Jean  Phillippe  was  only  too  happy  to  have  a  hand 
in  the  joyful  excitement.  "Mademoiselle,  the  young 
person  speaks  little  language.  But  he  told  me  to  say 
to  Monsieur  the  Marquis  that  he  was  the  little 
Battista." 

Pietro  looked  up  quickly.  "Alixe,  it  is  the  servant 
from  my  old  home  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you.  I  can 
not  imagine  how  Francois  got  hold  of  him,  but  he 
chose  a  good  messenger.  May  I  have  him  brought 
here?  He  must  have  something  to  tell  us." 

Alixe,  her  letter  tight  in  her  hands,  struggled  in 
her  mind.  Then:  "The  letter  will  keep — yes,  let 


GOOD    NEWS  197 

him  come,  and  we  can  read  it  all  the  better  after  for 
what  he  may  tell  us." 

So  Moison,  having  orders  to  produce  at  once  the 
said  little  Battista,  retired,  much  excited,  and  re 
turned  shortly — but  not  so  shortly  as  to  have  omitted 
a  fling  of  the  great  news  into  the  midst  of  the 
servants'  hall.  He  conducted,  marching  behind 
him,  the  little  Battista,  an  enormous  young  man 
of  six  feet  four,  erect,  grave,  stately.  This  dignified 
person,  saluting  the  lady  with  a  deep  bow,  dropped 
on  one  knee  before  his  master,  his  eyes  full  of  a 
worshiping  joy,  and  kissed  his  hand.  Having  done 
which,  he  arose  silently  and  stood  waiting,  with 
those  beaming  eyes  feasting  on  Pietro's  face,  but 
otherwise  decorous. 

First  the  young  marquis  said  some  friendly  words 
of  his  great  pleasure  in  seeing  his  old  servant  and 
the  friend  of  his  childhood,  and  the  big  man  stood 
with  downcast  eyes,  with  the  color  flushing  his 
happy  face.  Then,  "Battista,"  asked  the  marquis, 
"how  did  you  get  the  letter  which  you  brought 
mademoiselle?" 

"My  father,"  answered  Battista  laconically. 

"How  did  your  father  get  it  ?" 

"From  the  signor  prisoner,  my  Signer." 

Alixe  and  Pietro  looked  at  him  attentively,  not 


198  THE   MARSHAL 

comprehending  by  what  means  this  was  possible. 
Pietro,  remembering  the  little  Battista  of  old, 
vaguely  remembered  that  he  was  incapable  of  initi 
ative  in  speech.  One  must  pump  him  painfully. 

"Was  your  father  in  the  prison  where  the  signor 
is  confined?"  Alixe  asked. 

The  little  Battista  turned  his  eyes  on  her  a  second, 
approvingly,  but  briefly.  They  went  back  without 
delay  to  their  affair  of  devouring  the  face  of  his 
master.  But  he  answered  promptly.  "Yes,  Signo- 
rina;  he  is  there  always." 

"Always?"  Pietro  demanded  in  alarm.  "Is  Bat 
tista  a  prisoner?" 

"But  no,  my  Signor." 

"What  then?    Battista,  try  to  tell  us." 

So  adjured,  little  Battista  made  a  violent  effort. 
"He  is  one  of  the  jailers,  my  Signor." 

"Jailers?  For  the  Austrians?"  The  face  of  the 
marquis  took  all  the  joyful  light  out  of  the  face  of 
little  Battista. 

"My  Signor,"  he  stammered,  "it  could  not  be 
helped.  He  was  there.  He  knew  the  castle.  They 
forced  him  at  first,  and — and  it  came  to  be  so." 

"Knew  the  castle!"  Pietro  repeated.  "What 
castle?" 

Battista's  eyes  turned  to  his  master's  like  those  of 


GOOD    NEWS  199 

a  faithful  dog,  trusting  but  not  understanding. 
"What  castle,  my  Signer  ?  Castelforte — the  Signer's 
own  castle — what  other?" 

A  sharp  exclamation  from  Alixe  summed  up 
everything.  "Your  castle  is  confiscated ;  they  use  it 
as  a  prison.  Francois  is  a  prisoner  there,  Pietro! 
All  these  years — in  your  own  home!" 

"I  never  dreamed  of  that,"  Pietro  spoke,  think 
ing  aloud.  "Every  other  prison  in  Austria  and  Italy 
I  have  tried  to  find  him  in.  I  never  dreamed  of 
Castelforte." 

And  with  that,  as  if  pulling  teeth,  they  got  by 
slow  degrees  all  that  he  knew  from  the  little  Bat- 
tista.  The  letter,  tight  in  Alixe's  hand,  was  still 
unread ;  this  living  document  seemed  to  bring  them 
closer  to  their  friend  than  even  his  written  words. 
There  were  some  things  in  the  living  letter,  more 
over,  not  to  be  found  in  the  one  of  paper  and  ink. 
The  little  Battista,  being  put  to  the  wall,  told  them 
what  his  father  had  told  him,  what  the  doctor  of  the 
prison  had  told  his  father.  How  the  prisoner's 
health  was  failing;  of  that  band  of  white  in  his  dark 
hair;  at  last  that  the  doctor  had  said  to  the  big 
Battista  that  the  prisoner  could  not  live  more  than 
two  or  three  years  as  things  were;  that  even  if  re 
leased  he  might  not  regain  his  health,  would  not 


200  THE   MARSHAL 

live,  perhaps;  that  the  only  thing  which  could  save 
him  would  be  a  long  sea  voyage. 

"A  long  sea  voyage !"  Alixe  groaned  and  put  her 
face  into  her  hands  suddenly,  and  Pietro  looked  very 
sorrowful.  "A  long  sea  voyage  for  a  political  pris 
oner  in  the  hands  of  the  pitiless  Austrians!" 

At  the  end  of  the  interview  the  little  Battista  put 
his  hand  into  his  breast  pocket  and  brought  out 
another  letter,  thickly  folded.  Would  mademoiselle 
have  him  instructed  where  to  find  the  mother  of  the 
signer  prisoner?  He  had  promised  to  put  this  into 
her  own  hands.  He  must  do  it  before  he  touched 
food. 

And  Jean  Phillippe  Moison,  who  had  lurked  dis 
creetly  back  of  the  nearest  stone  vase,  not  missing  a 
syllable,  was  given  orders,  and  the  huge  little  Bat 
tista  was  sent  off  up  the  stone  steps  between  the 
scarlet  flowers,  up  the  velvet  slope  of  lawn,  in  charge 
of  the  purple  one. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  general  walked  up  from 
the  village,  walked  slowly,  thoughtfully  through  the 
beech  wood,  his  face  hardly  older  than  when  he  had 
come  to  Vieques,  but  sterner  and  sadder;  his  still 
soldierly  gait  less  buoyant  than  it  had  been  five  years 
ago.  There  were  voices  coming  to  him  down  the 
wind  through  the  trees.  The  general's  keen  eyes — 


GOOD    NEWS  201 

as  keen  as  Alixe's — searched  the  distant  leafy  dim 
ness  and  made  out  shortly  Alixe  and  Pietro  hurry 
ing  to  meet  him.  Why,  he  wondered  to  himself  as 
the  two  young  people  swung  through  the  wood — 
why  had  nothing  more  ever  come  of  this  long  friend 
ship?  He  felt  that  Pietro  loved  the  girl;  he  knew 
that  the  girl  loved  Pietro,  at  least  as  a  sister  loves  a 
brother.  But  she  was  not  a  sister ;  why  had  it  gone 
no  further?  Alixe,  now  a  very  beautiful  woman,  a 
woman  of  a  charm  greater  than  beauty,  had  had 
many  lovers,  but  no  one  of  them  had  touched  her 
heart,  and  this  Frenchman  and  his  daughter  were  on 
strange  terms  for  a  French  family.  So  intimate,  so 
equal  had  the  two  been  always  that  the  general 
would  not  have  arranged  a  marriage  for  her  as 
would  any  common  father  of  his  country.  Alixe 
must  have  her  free  choice.  Alixe  was  no  ordinary 
girl  to  be  happy  in  a  marriage  of  convenience;  she 
must  have  love,  his  Alixe. 

But  what  was  Pietro  about?  And  what,  more 
over,  was  Alixe  about?  Did  she  care  for  him? 
Or — his  heart  sank  at  the  thought — was  it  possible 
that  her  big  warm  heart  was  wearing  itself  out  for 
a  man  dead  or  worse  than  dead — for  Frangois,  shot 
by  the  Austrians,  or  else  buried  without  hope  in  an 
Austrian  fortress?  The  general  went  over  this 


202  THE    MARSHAL 

question  many  times  as  he  walked  or  rode  about  the 
Valley  Delesmontes,  as  he  sat  in  the  high  dim 
library,  as  he  lay  in  bed  at  night  and  listened  through 
the  stillness  to  the  Cheulte  rushing  down  over  its 
stones  half  a  mile  away.  He  wished  above  all  other 
wishes  to  know  Alixe  married  to  Pietro;  yet  when 
he  saw  them  together  he  was  jealous  for  the  mem 
ory  of  Frangois,  of  his  boy  Francois,  whose  career 
had  promised  so  brilliantly,  whose  dashing  courage, 
whose  strength  and  brains  and  beauty  and  charm 
had  been  his  pride  and  delight  almost  as  much  as  the 
brave  bright  character  of  Alixe.  He  himself  had 
sent  the  boy  away  to  keep  him  from  Alixe.  It 
might  be  he  had  sent  him  to  his  death;  it  might  be 
he  had  spoiled  Alixe's  life  as  well.  He  could  not 
tell. 

He  puzzled  over  it  as  he  came  up  through  the 
park — and  then  he  saw  Alixe  and  Pietro  coming 
joyfully  toward  him,  running  light-heartedly,  call 
ing  to  him  with  excited  gay  voices.  It  stabbed  the 
general's  heart;  a  quick  thought  came  of  that  other 
who  had  been  always  with  them,  now  dead  or  worse, 
of  that  other  whom  these  two  had  forgotten.  And 
with  that  they  were  upon  him,  and  Alixe  was  kissing 
him,  hugging  him,  pushing  a  letter  into  his  hand,  up 
his  sleeve,  into  his  face — anywhere. 


GOOD    NEWS  203 

"Father — good  news — the  best  news — almost  the 
best!  Father,  be  ready  for  the  good  news!" 

"I  am  ready,"  the  general  growled  impatiently. 
"What  is  this  foolery?  Sabre  de  bois!  What  is 
your  news,  then,  you  silly  child  ?" 

And  Alixe,  shaking  very  much,  laid  her  hand  on 
his  cheek  and  looked  earnestly  into  his  eyes. 
"Father,  Frangois  is  alive !" 

For  all  his  gruff  self-control  the  general  made  the 
letter  an  excuse  shortly  to  sit  down.  Queer,  that  a 
man's  knees  should  suddenly  bend  and  give  way 
because  of  a  thrill  of  rapture  in  a  man's  psycholog 
ical  make-up!  But  the  general  had  to  sit  down. 
And  then  and  there  all  that  had  been  extracted  from 
little  Battista  was  rehearsed,  and  the  letter  read  over 
from  start  to  finish. 

The  letter,  still  kept  in  that  cabinet  in  Virginia, 
told  them  all  that  has  already  been  written  or  told, 
and  which  was  of  importance  to  this  chronicle.  But 
some  of  it  was  what  has  been  quoted  about  the  old 
days  when  the  three  children  rode  Coq  in  the  park, 
and  about  the  morning  when  the  Marquis  Zappi 
came  with  his  little  boy  Pietro.  The  general,  hear 
ing  that,  was  afflicted  with  all  varieties  of  a  cold, 
and  Alixe  choked,  reading  it,  and  broke  down,  and 
read  again,  half  crying,  half  laughing. 


204  THE    MARSHAL 

"But  he  is  alive,  father!  Alive!  That  is  happi 
ness  enough  to  kill  one.  I  never  knew  till  now  that 
I  feared  he  was  dead." 

And  the  general,  getting  up  and  striding  about 
fiercely,  ripped  out  savage  words  such  as  should  be 
avoided — many  of  them — and  alternating  with 
symptoms  of  sudden  severe  influenza.  Then  he 
whirled  on  the  two. 

"Alive — yes!  But  in  prison — in  that  devil's  hole 
of  an  old  castle!"  And  Alixe  looked  at  Pietro  and 
laughed,  but  the  general  paid  no  attention.  "He 
must  be  got  out.  There  is  no  time  to  waste.  Diable! 
He  is  perishing  in  that  vile  stable !  What  was  that 
the  lad  said  about  the  doctor's  speech,  that  only  a 
long  sea  voyage  could  save  him?  One  must  get 
him  out,  mon  Dieu,  quick !" 

Alixe,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  put  her  head  down  on 
it  suddenly  and  stood  so  for  a  moment,  her  face 
hidden.  Pietro,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets, 
looked  at  the  general  with  wide  gray  eyes,  consider 
ing.  With  that  Alixe  flashed  up,  turned  on  the 
young  Italian,  shaking  her  forefinger  at  him;  her 
eyes  shone  blue  fire. 

"This  is  for  you,  Pietro.  If  we  should  lose  him 
now,  just  as  we  have  found  him !  Now  is  the  time 
for  you  to  show  if  you  can  be  what  is  brave  and 


GOOD    NEWS  205 

strong,  as  Frangois  has  shown.  It  is  your  castle ; 
you  must  save  him." 

Pietro  looked  at  the  girl,  and  the  color  crept 
through  his  cheeks,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Alixe,  my  Alixe,"  her  father  put  an  arm  around 
her.  "One  may  not  demand  heroism  as  if  it  were 
bread  and  butter.  Pietro  will  not  fail  us." 

"Alixe  always  wished  me  to  be  brilliant  like  Fran 
gois,"  Pietro  spoke  gently.  "But  I  never  could." 

"Yet,  Pietro,  it  is  indeed  your  time,"  Alixe  threw 
at  him  eagerly.  "Francois  must  be  rescued  or  he 
will  die." 

"Yes,"  Pietro  answered  quietly.  "Frangois  must 
be  rescued." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  as  if  thinking.  His 
calm  poised  mind  was  working  swiftly;  one  saw 
the  inner  action  in  the  clear  gray  eyes.  The  general 
and  Alixe,  watching  him,  saw  it. 

"I  think  I  know  how,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE  STONE  STAIRCASE 

BATTISTA'S  prisoner  stood  at  the  barred  win 
dow  high  up  the  steep  side  of  the  castle  and 
stared  out  wistfully  at  the  receding  infinity  of  blue- 
ness — his  meadow.  In  the  three  months  since  his 
letter  had  gone  to  France,  he  had  grown  old.  The 
juices  of  his  youth  seemed  dried  up;  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  his  skin  yellow;  there  was  no  flesh  on 
him.  The  waiting  and  hoping  had  worn  on  him 
more  than  the  dead  level  of  the  hopeless  years  be 
fore.  There  was  a  new  tenseness  in  the  lightly- 
built  figure,  even  in  the  long,  delicate,  strong  fingers. 
The  prisoner  had  caught  a  whiff  of  the  air  of  home 
and  was  choking  for  a  full  breath. 

It  had  not  been  so  before.  The  brightness  of  his 
temperament  had  done  him  good  service  at  first. 
Eager,  vehement,  energetic,  he  had  the  heart  of  a 
contented  little  child,  and  it  had  led  him  to  play  and 
be  happy  in  his  prison,  as  a  buoyant  child  will  make 

206 


THE    STONE    STAIRCASE  207 

a  boat  of  the  chair  in  which  he  is  set  for  a  punish 
ment  and  sail  away  into  adventures.  This  man, 
developing  out  of  the  boy  thrown  into  prison  five 
years  ago,  might  well  prove  to  have  limitations. 
Full  of  force  and  fire  and  gentleness,  he  had  the 
virtues  of  his  qualities,  but  he  had  their  defects,  too. 
It  might  yet  well  be  that  he  would  fall  short  in  sober 
judgment ;  it  might  be  that  he  would  not  be  found 
fitted  for  any  complication  of  responsibility.  Yet 
there  was  in  him  something  of  the  vision  of  the 
mystic,  something  of  that  power — called  what  it 
may  be — which  has  in  all  ages  worked  miracles  and 
moved  mountains.  Out  of  his  companions,  sea  and 
sky  and  distance — out  of  great  spaces  outside  and 
great  silence  inside  his  prison  he  had  drawn  power, 
and  risen  step  by  step  in  the  years.  On  the  founda 
tion  of  the  Catholicism  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up  he  had  built  a  religion  whose  breadth 
reached  right  and  left  beyond  the  old  measure  and 
covered  living  things  with  the  charity  which  suffers 
long  and  is  kind;  whose  height  stretched  up  into 
hopes  undefined,  of  things  unseen.  All  of  this  had 
comforted  him  and  kept  the  glow  of  his  soul  un- 
dulled. 

But  since  Battista's  son,  the    little  Battista  — who 
had  been  a  fisherman  and  not  much  known  about  the 


208  THE    MARSHAL 

castle — since  he  had  gone  to  France  with  those  two 
letters  of  Frangois'  sewed  into  his  right  coat  sleeve, 
a  restlessness  all  but  unendurable  had  seized  the 
prisoner.  He  knew  as  well  as  his  jailer,  tales  of 
men  thrown  into  dungeons  coming  out  many  years 
after  old  and  broken — of  men  never  coming  out  at 
all.  No  crueler  tyrants  than  the  Austrians  ever 
ruled,  and  no  more  pitiless.  And  now  that  his  let 
ters  had  actually  gone,  now  that  they  might  actually 
be  in  the  hands  of  the  people  he  loved  and  who 
loved  him,  unrest  tortured  him.  He  counted  the 
days  of  the  journey,  the  chances  of  delay,  he  made 
allowances,  and  at  last  he  believed,  with  a  thrill  of 
joy  and  of  pain  at  each  thought  of  it,  that  little  Bat- 
tista  must  have  arrived  at  Vieques,  that  his  mother 
and  Alixe  must  have  his  letters.  With  that,  unrest 
grew  fiercer.  They  could  not  help  him.  What 
could  they  do  ?  How  could  they  do  anything  against 
the  iron  wall  of  Austrian  power? 

He  said  such  things  over  to  himself,  even  aloud, 
to  keep  down  a  hope  which  he  could  not  bear  to  let 
grow,  for  fear  of  the  anguish  of  its  slow  death. 
But  the  hope  grew  and  was  anguish  in  its  growth. 
He  could  not  help  hoping,  believing,  that  the  gen 
eral,  that  Pietro,  that  Alixe,  with  her  force  and 
energy  and  inventiveness,  would  yet  save  him.  And 


THE    STONE    STAIRCASE  209 

the  hope  and  the  fear  racked  him  and  he  wasted 
away  and  burned  as  with  fever. 

"You  are  not  well,  my  friend,"  said  the  governor. 
"The  doctor  must  see  you." 

But  Francois  refused  lightly  and  laughed  and 
fell  to  singing  an  old  peasant  song  of  France  which 
he  had  remembered  lately;  he  got  up  on  the  table 
and  droned  it  to  an  imaginary  fiddle  which  he  pre 
tended  to  play  after  the  manner  of  old  Jacques 
Arne,  who  played  for  dances  in  Vieques. 

"De  tous  cote's  I' on  dit  que  fe  suis  bete — 
Cela  se  pent!    Et  ccpcndant  fen  ris 
Car,  mes  amis,  si  j'y  perd  la  tcte, 
Je  n'y  perd  pas  pour  cela,  I' ap petit! 

Assis  a  table,  a  I' ombre  dune  treille, 

Je  bois  et  ris 

Et  gaiment  je  m' eerie 

En  avalant  bouteille  sur  bouteille, 

A  quoi  sert  I' esprit?" 

So  ran  the  song.  And  the  governor  was  taken 
with  a  violent  fancy  for  it.  He  roared  at  it,  and 
sang  it  over  in  fragments  till  he  had  learned  it,  and 
then  he  sang  it  and  roared  again  and  slapped  his 
knee;  there  was  a  droll  comedy  in  Francois'  ren- 


210  THE    MARSHAL 

dering  also,  not  to  be  explained — and  the  count  said 
that  Francois  must  come  to  his  rooms  the  next  night 
for  dinner  and  sing  him  the  song  again  and  also 
listen  to  a  new  one  of  his  own. 

So  Francois  was  taken  down  the  stone  staircase 
and  conducted  to  the  two  rooms  which  were  the 
governor's  suite.  He  knew  them  well,  for  he  had 
dined,  as  has  been  said,  many  times  with  the  count. 
But  to-night  he  was  left  alone  a  few  moments  in 
the  outer  room,  the  living-room,  while  the  governor 
was  in  the  bedroom,  and  he  looked  about  keenly 
with  a  strained  attention  which  grew  out  of  the 
suppressed  hope  of  escape.  Who  knew  what  bit  of 
knowledge  of  the  castle  might  be  vital,  and  who 
knew  how  soon?  He  noted  the  swords  and  pistols 
hanging  on  the  wall,  and  marked  a  light  saber  whose 
scabbard  was  brightly  polished  as  if  the  blade  also 
were  kept  in  good  order.  On  the  table  he  saw  the 
flint  and  steel  with  which  Count  von  Gersdorf 
lighted  his  pipe ;  he  stepped  to  the  window  and  bent 
out,  scanning  the  wall.  A  stone  coping,  wide  enough 
for  a  man's  foot,  but  little  more,  ran,  four  feet  be 
low;  ten  feet  beyond  the  window  it  ended  in  the 
roof  of  a  shed,  a  sloping  roof  where  a  man  could 
drop  down,  yes,  or  even  climb  up  with  ease.  A 
man,  that  is,  who  had  climbed  when  a  boy  as  Fran- 


THE    STONE    STAIRCASE  211 

gois  had  climbed — like  a  cat  for  certainty  and  light 
ness.  But  what  then,  when  one  was  in  the  court 
yard?  It  was  walled  about  with  a  stone  wall  six 
teen  feet  high;  these  old  ancestors  of  Pietro,  who 
had  built  this  place,  had  planned  well  to  keep  Pie- 
tro's  friend  in  prison. 

So  Frangois,  not  hopeful  of  a  sortie  by  that  point, 
drew  in  his  head  from  the  open  window  and  took 
to  examining  the  walls  of  the  governor's  room. 
There  were  three  doors — one  from  the  hall  by  which 
he  had  come,  one  behind  which  he  now  heard  the 
count  moving  in  his  bedroom,  and  a  third.  The 
count  had  gone  through  this  last  door  one  night  a 
month  before,  into  a  dark,  winding,  stone  staircase, 
and  disappeared  for  three  minutes,  and  brought  up  a 
bottle  of  wonderful  wine. 

"A  fine  stock  they  put  down  there — the  Italians 
who  ruled  here  for  eight  hundred-odd  years,"  he 
had  said.  "I've  lowered  it  a  bit.  A  good  spacious 
wine-cellar  and  grand  old  wine.  You  will  be  the 
better  for  a  little."  And  Francois  had  watched  him 
as  he  put  the  brass  key  back  on  the  chain  which 
hung  from  his  belt. 

At  this  point  of  memory  the  bedroom  door 
opened,  and  the  governor  came  out,  in  great  good 
humor  and  ready  to  eat  and  drink  as  became  an 


212  THE    MARSHAL 

Austrian  soldier.  The  dinner  was  brought  in,  but 
Francois,  for  all  his  efforts  to  do  his  part,  could 
not  swallow  food,  or  very  little.  The  fever,  the 
unrest  burning  in  him,  made  it  impossible.  Count 
Gersdorf  looked  at  him  seriously  when  dinner  was 
over;  as  yet  Francois,  talking,  laughing,  singing, 
had  eaten  not  over  half  a  dozen  mouthfuls. 

"Certainly  you  are  not  well,"  he  said.  "I  think 
the  doctor  should  see  you."  And  then  he  nodded 
his  head  and  his  small  eyes  gleamed  with  a  brilliant 
thought.  "I  know  a  medicine  better  than  a  doc 
tor's."  He  stood  up  and  his  fingers  were  working 
at  the  chain  of  keys  at  his  belt.  Franqois  watched 
them  and  saw  the  thin,  old,  brass  key  which  he 
slipped  off.  "A  bottle  of  wine  of  our  Italian  an 
cestors — yours  and  mine,  Beaupre" — the  count 
chuckled — "that  will  cure  you  of  your  ills  for  this 
evening  at  least."  He  slid  the  key  into  the  lock  and 
said,  half  to  himself,  "My  little  brass  friend  never 
leaves  the  belt  of  Albrecht  von  Gersdorf  except  to 
do  him  a  pleasure,  bless  him!"  And  then,  "Hold 
the  candle,  Beaupre — well,  come  along  down — it 
can  do  no  harm  and  I  can't  manage  a  light  and  two 
bottles." 

So  Francois  followed  down  the  twisted,  headlong, 
stone  staircase  and  found  himself,  after  rather  a 


THE   STONE    STAIRCASE  213 

long  descent,  holding  the  lamp  high,  gazing  curi 
ously  about  the  walls  of  a  large  stone  room  lined 
with  shelves,  filled  with  bottles. 

"A  show,  isn't  it?"  the  Count  von  Gersdorf  de 
manded.  "Here,  hold  the  light  on  this  side,"  and 
he  went  on  talking.  "The  wine  is  so  old  that  I 
think  it  must  have  been  stocked  before  the  time  of 
the  last  lord  of  the  castle." 

And  Frangois,  holding  the  light,  remembering  the 
Marquis  Zappi,  thought  so  too.  The  count  pointed 
to  a  square  stone  in  the  wall  which  projected 
slightly,  very  slightly. 

"That  is  the  door  to  a  secret  stock  of  some  sort, 
I  have  always  thought,"  he  said.  "Probably  some 
wonderful  old  stuff  saved  for  the  coming  of  age  of 
the  heir,  or  a  great  event  of  that  sort.  I  wish  I 
could  get  at  it,"  and  he  stared  wistfully  at  the 
massive  block.  "But  I  can  not  stir  it.  And  I  don't 
let  any  one  but  myself  down  here — not  I."  The 
count  turned  away  and  they  mounted  the  two  stories 
of  narrow  steps,  for  the  governor's  rooms  were  on 
the  second  floor,  and  the  staircase  ran  from  it  be 
tween  walls,  down  underground.  "The  old  chaps 
must  have  thought  a  lot  of  their  wine  to  have  the 
cellar  connect  directly  with  their  own  rooms — for 
Battista  tells  me  these  were  always  the  rooms  of  the 


214  THE    MARSHAL 

Za — of  the  lords  of  the  castle,"  the  governor  ex 
plained. 

And  to  Francois,  considering  it,  the  fact  seemed 
an  odd  one.  And  then  the  governor  set  to  work 
drinking  Pietro's  wine,  and  little  thought,  as  he 
urged  it  on  his  prisoner,  how  much  more  right  to 
it  the  prisoner  had  than  he.  It  was  a  wonderful  old 
liquid,  full  of  a  strange  dim  sparkle,  and  of  most 
exquisite  bouquet.  As  he  drank  it  Frangois  silently 
toasted  its  owner  on  his  return  to  his  own  again. 
He  took  so  little  as  to  disgust  the  governor,  but  it 
put  fresh  life  into  him,  and  when  at  last  he  could 
leave  the  count,  who  was  by  that  time  more  than 
fairly  drunk,  he  went  up  to  his  cold  prison  under 
the  roof  quieter  and  more  at  peace  than  he  had  been 
for  months. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A    LOAF    OF    BREAD 

THE  next  morning  Battista  came  in  with  a  man 
ner  which  to  the  observing  eye  of  his  prisoner 
foretold  distinctly  some  event.  He  talked  more 
than  usual,  and  more  gruffly  and  loudly,  but  at  last, 
after  wandering  about  the  room  some  minutes,  all 
the  time  talking,  scolding,  he  swooped  on  Francois 
and  thrust  a  thick  paper  into  his  coat  and  at  the 
same  instant  his  heavy  left  hand  was  over  Fran- 
gois'  mouth. 

"Not  a  word,"  he  whispered,  and  then —  "The 
loaf  of  bread." 

Frangois,  struck  dumb  and  blind,  turned  hot  and 
cold,  and  his  shaking  hand  in  his  coat  pocket 
clutched  the  letter. 

But  Battista  prodded  him  with  his  hard  fore 
finger.  "Be  careful,"  he  muttered,  and  then  again, 
"The  bread" — with  a  sharp  prod — "The  loaf  of 
bread" — and  the  door  had  clanged.  Battista  was 
gone. 


216  THE    MARSHAL 

A  strong  man,  who  had  not  been  shut  away  from 
life,  would  likely  have  read  the  letter  instantly, 
would  instantly  have  examined  the  long  round  loaf 
lying  before  him.  Frangois  was  ill  and  weak  and 
it  was  the  first  word  for  five  years  from  his  own 
people,  which  lay  in  his  hand ;  he  sat  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  touching  the  paper  as  if  that  were  enough; 
he  sat  for  perhaps  fifteen  minutes. 

Then  suddenly  a  breathlessness  came  over  him 
that  something  might  happen  before  he  could  read 
it — this  writing  which,  whatever  it  should  say, 
meant  life  and  death  to  him.  Taking  care  not  to 
rustle  the  paper,  deadening  the  sound  under  his 
bedclothes,  he  read  it,  kneeling  by  the  bed.  It  was 
four  letters — from  his  mother  and  Alixe  and  the 
general  and  Pietro;  but  the  first  three  were  short. 
He  felt,  indeed,  reading  them,  that  no  words  had 
been  written,  that  only  the  arms  of  the  people  he 
loved  had  strained  about  him  and  their  faces  laid 
against  his,  and  that  so,  wordlessly,  they  had  told 
him  but  one  thing — their  undying  love.  Weak, 
lonely,  his  intense  temperament  stretched  to  the 
breaking  point  by  the  last  three  months  of  fearful 
hope,  it  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  put  the 
papers  against  his  cheek  and  his  head  dropped  on 
the  bed,  and  a  storm  of  tears  tore  his  soul  and  body. 


A   LOAF   OF    BREAD  217 

But  it  was  dangerous ;  he  must  not  -be  off  his  guard ; 
he  remembered  that  swiftly,  and  with  shaking  fin 
gers  he  opened  Pietro's  letter — Pietro's  letter  which, 
yellowed  and  faded  but  distinct  yet,  in  the  small 
clear  writing,  is  guarded  to-day  with  those  other  let 
ters  in  the  mahogany  desk  in  Virginia. 

"My  dear  brother  Francois,"  the  letter  began, 
and  quick  tears  came  again  at  that  word  "brother", 
which  said  so  much.  "My  dear  brother  Francois — 
this  is  not  to  tell  you  how  I  have  searched  for  you 
and  never  forgotten  you.  I  will  tell  you  that  when 
I  see  you.  This  is  to  tell  you  how  to  get  out  of  that 
house  of  mine  which  has  held  you  as  a  prisoner 
when  you  ought  to  have  been  its  welcome  guest. 
When  Italy  is  free  we  will  do  that  over;  but  we 
must  get  you  free  first.  Franqois,  I  am  now  within 
five  miles  of  you — " 

The  man  on  his  knees  by  the  prison  bed  gasped; 
the  letters  staggered  before  his  eyes. 

"I  am  living  on  a  ship,  and  I  will  explain  how  I 
got  it  when  I  see  you,  in  a  few  days  now,  Francois. 
Every  night  for  a  week,  beginning  with  to-night, 
there  will  be  a  person  watching  for  you  in  Riders' 
Hollow,  from  midnight  till  daylight.  After  that  we 
shall  go  away  for  two  weeks  so  as  to  avoid  giving 
suspicion,  and  then  repeat  the  arrangement  again 


218  THE    MARSHAL 

every  night  for  a  week.  You  do  not  know  Riders' 
Hollow,  and  it  is  unnecessary  to  tell  you  more  about 
it  than  that  it  is  a  lonely  place  hidden  in  trees,  and 
supposed  to  be  haunted  by  ghosts  of  men  on  horse 
back  ;  the  people  about  will  not  go  there  for  love  or 
money  except  by  broad  daylight. 

"This  is  the  way  you  are  to  get  there.  In  the 
wine-cellar  of  the  castle,  which  opens  from  the 
governor's  room — in  old  times  always  the  room  of 
the  lord — in  that  wine-cellar,  on  the  north  wall,  is 
a  square  block  of  stone  projecting  slightly  beyond 
the  wall.  If  you  press  the  lower  corner  on  the  left- 
hand  side,  of  the  stone  under  this,  the  big  stone 
above  will  swing  out  and  show  an  opening  large 
enough  for  a  man  to  pass.  Going  through,  you 
close  the  door  by  pressing  the  same  stone,  and  you 
then  will  find  yourself  in  an  underground  passage 
which  leads  straight  half  a  mile  through  the  earth 
to  Riders'  Hollow.  The  passage  is  five  hundred 
years  old  and  only  the  family  of  the  Zappis  have 
ever  known  of  it.  I  went  through  it  once  in  my 
boyhood  with  my  father,  and  it  was  in  perfect  con 
dition,  so  I  believe  that  it  will  be  now.  It  was  built 
with  solidity — as  one  may  believe,  for  if  the  old 
Zappis  wanted  it  at  all  they  wanted  it  in  working 
order. 


A    LOAF   OF    BREAD  219 

"Your  part  will  be  difficult,  Francois,  but  I  be 
lieve  you  can  do  it.  You  will  have  to  get  the  key 
of  the  wine-cellar,  or  else  force  the  lock.  Can  you 
do  that?  It  is  necessary  to  do  it,  Francois,  for  we 
can  not  get  on  without  you,  and  we  shall  from  now 
live  only  to  set  you  free.  I  send  you  something 
which  may  be  useful." 

Frangois  dropped  the  letter  and  picked  up  the 
long  loaf  and  tore  it  apart.  There  was  a  file  in  the 
center.  As  if  a  powerful  tonic  had  been  infused 
into  him  he  felt  strength  and  calmness  pour  through 
him.  He  read  the  letters  over  and  over  till  he  had 
them  by  heart;  then  he  concealed  them  carefully, 
with  the  file,  in  his  mattress.  After  that  he  sat 
down  and  concentrated  his  mind,  with  the  new  force 
working  in  it,  on  his  plan. 

The  governor  was  almost  certain  to  have  him 
down  to  dinner  again  in  two  or  three  days;  it  was 
a  pity  that  while  he  was  there,  all  but  on  the  spot, 
he  could  not  possess  himself  of  the  key  and  escape. 
He  thought  over  one  or  two  plans  on  that  basis, 
but  they  all  shipwrecked  on  the  fact  that  the  guards 
were  accustomed  to  take  him  back  to  his  room  at 
eleven,  and  that,  failing  notice  from  the  governor, 
they  would  certainly  come  to  find  out  why  if  they 
were  not  called.  That  would  start  the  pursuit;  he 


220  THE    MARSHAL 

must  have  the  night  clear.  So  he  unwillingly  let 
go  of  the  great  advantage  of  his  own  presence  in 
the  governor's  room,  so  near  the  scene  of  action, 
and  planned  otherwise.  With  infinite  forethought, 
with  an  eye  to  every  contingency  possible  to  imag 
ine,  he  planned,  and  when  the  notice  came,  two  days 
later,  that  the  Count  von  Gersdorf  wished  him  to 
dine  with  him  that  night,  Fran9ois'  heart  leaped 
madly  but  exultantly,  for  he  was  ready. 

Never  had  the  young  Frenchman  been  more  en 
tertaining,  more  winning  to  his  tyrant  than  to-night, 
but  the  excitement  of  what  was  before  him  made 
it  almost  out  of  the  question  to  eat  the  count's  din 
ner.  As  before,  the  count  prescribed  old  wine  as 
a  tonic,  and  took  Francois  with  him  to  get  it.  To 
night  there  were  three  bottles  brought  up — the  count 
was  preparing  to  drink  hard.  And  Frangois  had 
some  trouble  in  not  drinking  with  him ;  but  he  kept 
up  his  end  with  singing  and  acting,  with  a  dance  or 
two  out  of  the  peasant  repertoire  of  the  Jura,  with 
a  mock  drill  of  an  awkward  squad  at  Saint-Cyr,  with 
clever  imitations  of  the  few  people  whom  he  had 
seen  about  the  castle,  Battista's  gruffness  and  man 
gled  German  words,  and  the  sniffling  mixed  with 
grandiloquence  of  one  of  the  guards;  finally  he 
grew  daring  and  imitated  the  governor's  superior 


A    LOAF    OF    BREAD  221 

officer  who  had  visited  the  prison  six  months  ago 
and  had  seen  Francois  among  the  others.  Fran- 
c,ois,  with  his  body  bent  out,  and  a  fat  waddle,  and 
an  improvised  eye-glass  and  a  pursy  short-breathed 
manner,  spoke  of  the  governor  severely,  puffing  at 
him  between  sentences,  reproving  him,  among  other 
things,  for  having  prisoners  dine  with  him. 

And  the  governor  roared  with  delight,  for  this 
man  was  his  rival  and  it  did  his  soul  good  to  see 
him  made  ridiculous.  He  roared,  and  drank  to  the 
imitation,  and  the  imitation  rebuked  his  levity 
throatily,  till  the  governor  roared  and  drank  again 
and  shouted  for  more.  And  Francois,  excited,  ex 
hilarated,  did  more;  and  still  the  governor  drank  as 
he  acted.  And  the  vaudeville  went  on.  So  that 
when  the  guard  came  at  eleven  the  count  was  lying 
across  the  sofa,  too  tipsy  to  get  to  bed  alone,  and 
Frangois  had  to  wait,  pretending  to  be  heavy  with 
wine  himself,  while  the  two  soldiers  put  the  gov 
ernor  to  bed. 

At  last  he  was  taken  up-stairs  between  them, 
leaning  on  them  limply;  at  last  his  door  clanged 
shut;  he  listened  to  the  footsteps  of  the  two  dying- 
away  down  the  stone  hall,  down  the  staircase;  then 
swiftly  he  drew  out  the  file  and  the  letters  from  his 
mattress;  he  hid  the  papers,  wrapped  tight  in  their 


222  THE    MARSHAL 

oilskin  cover,  in  his  coat  lining;  he  set  to  work  with 
the  file  to  finish  iron  bars  already  three-quarters 
filed  through.  That  was  done  and  with  fingers  that 
seemed  to  work  as  fast,  as  intelligently  as  his  brain, 
he  tore  the  bedclothes  into  stout  strips  and  tied  them 
together  with  square  knots  which  would  not  slip, 
and  tied  knots  in  the  line  at  intervals  of  a  few  feet 
which  might  keep  a  man's  fingers  from  slipping. 
He  had  to  guess  how  long  the  rope  must  be,  but  the 
bedclothes  were  all  used  and  the  rope  was  many 
yards — it  must  serve.  He  put  the  file,  with  two 
candle  ends  which  he  had  saved,  in  his  pocket;  he 
made  one  end  of  the  strip  fast  to  an  untouched  iron 
bar  of  his  window ;  he  weighted  the  other  end ;  then 
he  looked  about  a  moment,  half  to  see  if  all  of  his 
small  resources  had  been  remembered,  half  in  a 
glance  of  farewell  to  a  place  where  he  had  passed 
hours  never  to  be  forgotten. 

With  that  he  vaulted  to  the  window-ledge  and 
took  the  first  knot  in  a  firm  grip  and  let  himself  out 
into  the  dark  still  night.  His  feet  hung  in  the  air, 
his  hand  slid  fast — fast — down  that  poor  ladder  of 
torn  stuff;  the  die  was  cast;  he  was  going  to  things 
unknown;  he  had  taken  a  desperate  chance  and 
might  not  go  back.  And  he  slipped  down,  down, 
from  knot  to  knot.  Suddenly  he  came  to  the  last 


A    LOAF    OF    BREAD  223 

knot;  he  had  fastened  a  bit  of  wood  there  so  that 
he  might  know  when  he  got  t®  the  end.  What  was 
this  ?  It  certainly  was  the  last  knot ;  the  bit  of  wood 
scraped  his  hand  as  he  held  it ;  but  his  feet  did  not 
touch  ground. 

There  he  hung,  swaying  in  blackness,  not  know 
ing  how  far  he  might  be  above  the  earth,  not  know 
ing  what  to  do.  Only  a  moment,  for  instantly  he 
knew  that  in  any  case  he  could  not  go  back,  if  he 
would,  up  that  slight  swinging  rope;  he  must  drop, 
whatever  happened.  He  bent  his  knees  ready  for 
the  fall  and  let  go.  With  a  shock  he  landed  and 
rolled,  bruised  and  out  of  breath,  but  not  injured; 
he  looked  up  and  in  the  dimness  saw  the  last  knot 
with  its  bit  of  wood  swinging  in  air  twelve  feet  or 
so  from  the  ground. 

But  he  had  no  time  given  him  to  consider  this 
point,  for  at  that  second,  at  the  far  end  of  the  closed 
yard  a  door  opened,  a  blaze  of  light  poured  out,  and 
a  squad  of  six  soldiers  stepped  from  the  castle, 
torches  in  the  hands  of  the  foremost.  Francois 
dropped,  crouching  into  the  shadows  against  the 
wall,  but  his  heart  grew  sick  as  he  realized  the  fu 
tility  of  this.  The  soldiers  were  coming  straight 
toward  him. 

With  that,  a  gleam  on  a  brighter  surface  than 


224  THE    MARSHAL 

the  ground  met  his  sight,  below  the  level  of  the 
ground.  His  eyes,  searching  the  darkness,  made 
out  a  great  butt  of  water,  sunken  by  the  castle  wall. 
Instantly  he  slid  into  it,  up  to  his  neck.  It  was  not 
quite  full,  and  his  head  did  not  show  in  the  shadows 
of  the  inside.  The  blaze  of  the  torches  swept  close, 
brighter,  as  Francois,  shivering  in  the  cold  water, 
glued  himself  to  the  dark  side;  the  blaze  of  the 
torches  waved,  shadowy,  gigantic,  across  the  water 
and  the  castle  wall;  he  heard  the  soldiers  speak  in 
short  deep  words ;  it  was  like  an  evil  dream,  and  it 
slipped  past,  torches  and  dark-swinging  shadows 
and  heavy  tread  of  men  and  stern  voices,  like  a 
dream.  The  heavy  door  shut,  the  lights  were  gone, 
everything  was  still. 

More  dead  than  alive,  Francois  dripped  from  the 
water-butt.  The  hardest  part  of  his  night's  job,  the 
part  that  needed  all  his  strength  of  body  and  brain, 
was  immediately  before  him,  and  he  stood  nerve 
less,  with  clicking  teeth,  as  limp  as  the  traditional 
drowned  rat  A  moment  he  stood  so,  utterly  dis 
couraged,  without  confidence,  without  hope.  Then 
with  his  trembling  lips  he  framed  words,  words 
familiar  to  him  for  years,  and  with  that,  in  a  shock, 
he  felt  strength  and  courage  rising  in  him  like  a 
slow  calm  flood.  It  was  not  less  a  miracle  because 


A   LOAF   OF    BREAD  22$ 

there  was  no  sign  in  the  heavens,  no  earthquake  or 
lightning;  it  was  not  less  a  miracle  because  many 
people  living  now  might  tell  of  a  like  help  in  fearful 
need.  As  it  was  once  a  long  time  ago,  the  water  of 
his  blood  was  changed  into  wine.  So  the  prisoner 
stood  in  the  courtyard  in  the  blackness  of  midnight 
and  found  himself  ready. 

He  groped  his  way  to  the  shed  he  had  seen  from 
the  governor's  window;  with  his  old  boyish  agility 
he  scrambled  up  its  sloping  roof  and  felt  for  the 
coping  he  had  noticed — the  coping  wide  enough  for 
a  man's  foot;  he  had  found  it;  he  had  found  a 
water-pipe  above  to  help  him  stand  on  it;  he  was 
on  the  coping,  face  flat  to  the  wall,  working  his  way 
with  infinite  delicate  care  to  the  window  of  the 
governor.  He  never  knew  how  long  that  part  took ; 
it  seemed  a  great  while,  though  not  many  feet  lay 
between  the  shed  and  the  window.  Then  he  felt  the 
stone  sill  of  the  window;  his  hand  crept  up;  it  was 
open — wide  open.  With  a  strong  pull  he  had  swung 
himself  over  and  stood  in  the  dark,  in  the  governor's 
bedroom. 

Stood  and  listened,  hardly  daring  for  the  first  in 
stant  to  draw  the  long  breath  he  sorely  needed.  Then 
he  smiled.  No  necessity  for  that  caution  at  least. 
The  governor  was  snoring  a  heavy  aggressive  snore 


226  THE    MARSHAL 

which  would  have  drowned  most  noises.  Francois 
stood  quiet  till  his  eyes  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  shadows,  and  then  they  searched  about  quickly. 
Ah!  there  they  were,  the  governor's  clothes.  On  a 
chair  by  his  bed.  With  wary  steps  he  stole  across. 
He  lifted  off  one  or  two  things  and  suddenly  there 
was  a  jingle. 

"Ah!"  growled  the  governor  and  flung  out  his 
hand,  and  the  snore  came  to  a  full  stop. 

The  hand  searched  the  darkness  a  second ;  all  but 
touched  that  of  Francois,  then  fell  limply,  the  head 
turned  away,  with  a  deep  sigh.  Like  a  statue  Fran- 
c,ois  stood,  frozen  to  the  floor,  and  dared  not  look 
at  the  figure  stirring  in  the  bed,  for  fear  his  gaze 
might  awake  the  sleeper.  For  he  slept;  the  sound 
of  the  keys  had  only  jarred  some  chord  in  his  uneasy 
dream.  Long  minutes  after  the  snoring  was  in  full 
progress  again  Francois  waited,  and  then  with  care 
ful  fingers  he  clasped  the  entire  bunch  of  keys  softly 
and  carried  them  into  the  next  room. 

There  was  a  low  light  there,  on  the  writing-table. 
Frangois  slipped  the  thin,  old,  brass  key  which  he 
knew  off  from  the  bunch;  he  glanced  about  quickly 
and  found  the  flint  and  steel  on  its  table  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket;  he  took  down  that  small  saber, 
with  its  well-polished  scabbard,  and  buckled  it  about 


A    LOAF    OF    BREAD  227 

himself;  then  a  thought  came  to  him.  A  sheet  of 
paper  lay  on  the  governor's  writing-table  as  if  he 
had  been  about  to  write  a  letter;  pen  and  ink  were 
ready.  The  prisoner  dropped  into  the  governor's 
chair  and  wrote : 

"My  dear  Count,  I  can  not  run  away  without 
leaving  a  good-by  for  you  and  a  word  of  thanks 
for  the  kindness  you  have  shown  me.  Be  sure 
I  shall  not  forget  our  evenings  together  and  shall 
be  glad  when  I  hear  of  your  promotion,  as  I  am 
sure  I  shall  hear.  I  heartily  hope  I  am  not  go 
ing  to  make  trouble  for  you.  But  I  have  to  go — 
you  will  understand  that.  With  a  thousand  thanks 
again  I  am,  Count,  your  grateful  prisoner — Fran- 
<;ois  Beaupre."  And  under  the  signature  by  an  after 
inspiration  he  wrote : 

"De  tons  cote's  Von  dit  que  je  suis  bete — 
Cela  se  pent!    Et  cependant  j'en  ris." 

Still  the  count  snored.  Francois,  alert,  stood  and 
listened  as  he  folded  the  note  carefully  and  laid  it 
under  a  weight  on  the  table.  Then  he  tempted  Prov 
idence  no  longer.  He  slid  the  battered,  bright,  old, 
brass  key  softly  into  the  lock,  let  himself  into  the 
dark  stairway,  relocked  the  door  on  the  inside, 


228  THE    MARSHAL 

groped  his  way  painfully  down  the  steep  stairs  into 
the  wine-cellar,  and  when  he  felt  a  level  floor  under 
his  feet  struck  a  light  with  the  governor's  flint  and 
steel.  He  lighted  one  of  his  candle  ends.  The  wine- 
cellar,  which  he  had  left  only  two  hours  before, 
seemed  almost  homelike ;  it  lacked  the  governor,  that 
was  all.  He  crossed  to  the  projecting  stone  in  the 
north  wall,  and  pressed  the  corner  of  the  stone  be 
low.  Nothing  happened.  Hurriedly  he  pressed  it 
again,  harder,  but  the  cold  even  surface  of  the  wall 
stared  him  blankly  in  the  face.  Again  he  pushed — 
with  no  result.  A  sickness  came  over  him.  Was  all 
his  labor  and  peril  to  go  for  nothing?  Was  he  to 
be  caught  again  and  thrust  back,  this  time  into  some 
far  worse  dungeon?  How  had  he  dared  to  hope! 
The  entrance  was  closed,  overgrown,  the  masonry 
had  grown  solid  with  years  and  dampness. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   PEASANT   GUIDE 

HE  flashed  out  the  saber  and  desperately  he 
slid  it  this  way  and  that  about  the  great  stone, 
trying  to  find  a  crack,  something  to  loosen,  some 
thing  that  would  give.     And  while  he  worked  in  a 
fever,  in  a  chill,  he  remembered  Pietro's  letter. 

Then  he  set  down  the  candle  end  on  a  shelf  and 
with  trembling  fingers  drew  off  his  coat  and  drew 
out  the  hidden  papers.  The  wet  from  his  bath  in 
the  water-butt  had  stained  them  a  little,  but  only  a 
little,  for  they  were  carefully  wrapped  in  the  bit  of 
oilskin  in  which  they  had  come.  He  unfolded  the 
letter. 

"If  you  will  press  the  lower  corner  on  the  left- 
hand  side,"  Pietro  said — "the  lower  corner !" 

And  he  had  been  concentrating  all  his  efforts,  all 
his  despair,  on  the  upper  corner.  When  it  is  a  ques 
tion  of  life  and  death  a  man  is  superhumanly  strong 
and  quick  sometimes,  but  he  is  also  sometimes  for 
getful.  It  is  an  exciting  and  confusing  thing,  likely, 

229 


230  THE    MARSHAL 

to  be  working  for  life  and  liberty  after  five  years  of 
imprisonment.  Francois  pushed  the  lower  left-hand 
corner  and  like  magic  the  great  block  above  swung 
out.  .With  his  lighted  candle  end  in  his  hand  he 
slipped  through  and  turned  and  swung  back  the 
door  into  place  and  turned  again  and  faced  black 
ness.  Narrow,  low,  cold  blackness.  Quickly  enough, 
however,  with  good  courage,  with  his  heart  thump 
ing  out  a  song  of  hope,  which  he  had  kept  down 
sternly  till  now,  he  walked,  at  times  stooping  low 
as  he  must  because  of  the  descent,  down  the  secret 
road  of  the  old  Zappis.  His  candle  held  forward, 
he  could  see  a  few  feet  ahead,  but  all  he  could  see 
was  huge  blocks  of  rough  stone,  green  with  mold, 
water  dripping  between  them.  The  air  he  breathed 
was  heavy  and  thick;  through  his  wet  clothes  he 
felt  a  chill  as  of  the  grave.  But  what  mattered  the 
road,  when  the  road  led  to  freedom? 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  the  passage  might 
be  blocked.  It  was  years  since  Pietro  had  been 
through  it;  some  of  the  stones  might  have  fallen — 
it  would  take  very  little  to  close  so  narrow  a  way. 
With  an  anxiety  which  was  physical  pain,  with 
breathless  eagerness  now,  he  hurried  on.  He  had  to 
stop  to  light  his  second  candle ;  again  he  hurried  on. 
Would  the  end  never  come  ?  Was  any  mistake  pos- 


THE    PEASANT    GUIDE  231 

sible?  With  that  he  stumbled  against  something 
and  fell,  and  the  candle  flew  from  his  hand  and  was 
put  out;  with  a  hoarse  groan  he  threw  out  an  arm 
to  steady  himself,  to  rise;  his  hand  went  through  a 
yielding,  prickly  mass ;  a  glimmer  came  in  past  it — 
light — the  end! 

Pushing,  crashing,  staggering  through,  he  came 
into  a  strange  place.  It  was  as  if  a  giant  had  taken 
a  huge  spoon  and  scooped  out  the  top  of  the  earth 
deep,  very  deep.  All  of  this  great  hollow  was  filled 
with  trees  and  tangled  undergrowth.  It  was  full 
of  vague  shadows  in  the  glimmer  of  earliest  dawn. 
Francois,  standing  there  sobbing,  ghastly  with  pale 
ness,  with  matted  hair  and  wild-staring  eyes  and 
gasping  mouth  and  wet  torn  clothes,  was  a  fit  de 
mon  for  the  haunted  spot.  He  saw  nothing,  no  one ; 
with  that  there  was  a  soft  snapping  of  twigs  and 
a  movement  in  the  darkness  farthest  from  him;  a 
movement  toward  him.  Tottering  he  crawled  to 
meet  it;  in  another  second  the  shadows  had  shaped 
into  figures — a  peasant  boy  on  a  horse,  leading  an 
other  horse. 

Then  he  stood  close  to  them,  and  the  boy,  leaning 
over  without  a  word  put  something  into  his  hand, 
and  Franqois,  swaying  with  exhaustion,  saw  that 
it  was  a  flask.  He  took  a  long  swallow  of  cognac 


232  THE   MARSHAL 

and  his  chilled  blood  leaped,  and  with  that  he  had 
caught  the  bridle  from  the  lad  and  was  in  the  saddle. 

Silently,  without  a  word  spoken,  they  climbed  the 
shadowy  slope  under  the  overhanging  trees  of  Rid 
ers'  Hollow.  Silently,  fast,  they  rode  through  the 
pale  darkness,  through  the  slow-coming  day,  down 
wooded  roads,  across  fields,  always  toward  the  sea. 
Steadily  the  day  came;  now  they  were  galloping 
most  of  the  time,  only  pulling  in  to  let  the  horses 
breathe  going  up  a  hill,  or  to  guard  them  from 
stumbling  down  one. 

In  the  shadows  of  trees,  in  a  lonely  lane,  the  peas 
ant  boy  stopped  his  horse  suddenly  and  made  a  short 
gesture  toward  the  flask  sticking  out  of  Frangois' 
coat  pocket.  His  strength  was  going  again;  it  was 
exactly  the  right  moment.  Another  swallow  of 
brandy  and  he  rode  on  with  fresh  courage.  But 
something  in  the  gesture  of  the  peasant  boy ;  some 
thing  about  his  seat  in  the  saddle,  about  the  touch 
of  his  hands  on  the  rein,  gave  Francois  a  curious 
undefined  shock.  In  the  growing  daylight  he  turned 
toward  the  silent  rider.  The  coat  collar  was  up 
and  the  broad-brimmed  soft  hat  drawn  down.  The 
slim  figure,  outlined  against  the  cool  pink  vastness 
of  the  morning  sky  was  clad  like  an  ordinary  young 
peasant — yet!  There  was  a  poise,  a  sure  grace, 


THE    PEASANT    GUIDE  233 

which  seemed  unlike  a  peasant,  which  seemed  like — 

"Have  we  far  to  go?"  Francois  demanded  sud 
denly  in  French. 

The  head  turned  swiftly;  black  exaggerated 
lashes  lifted  and  under  them  were  the  blue  eyes  he 
knew. 

"Alixe." 

He  cried  it  out  loud,  reckless,  forgetting  every 
thing.  But  she  did  not  forget.  In  an  instant  her 
hand  was  on  his  mouth,  and  she  was  whispering  in 
terror. 

"Francois,  dear  Francois,  be  careful.  We  are 
not  safe  yet.  We  have  a  village  to  ride  through — 
see,  there  is  a  house.  It  is  almost  time  for  them  to 
be  awake.  Ride  fast.  It  is  two  miles  yet." 

They  were  racing  again  over  the  soft  ground,  the 
horses'  unshod  feet  making  little  noise,  and  Fran- 
qois'  heart  was  playing  mad  music.  No  need  now 
of  cognac.  Then  they  were  galloping  down  the 
sand  of  a  lonely  beach,  and  with  that  there  was  a 
little  group  of  people  and  a  boat  drawn  up;  and 
they  had  pulled  in  the  horses,  and  Francois  felt 
himself  lifted  off  like  a  child  and  lying  like  a  very 
little,  worn-out  child  in  the  general's  arms;  and  the 
general  was  crying,  swearing,  hugging  him  without 
shame.  Pietro  was  there;  Pietro  was  rubbing  the 


234  THE    MARSHAL 

thin  hands  in  a  futile  useless  sort  of  way,  and  hold 
ing  them  by  turns  to  his  face.  Alixe,  her  peasant 
hat  off  now,  bent  over  them,  lovelier  than  ever  be 
fore,  not  minding  her  boy's  dress,  and  smiled  at 
him,  wordless.  There  was  a  huge  man  also  who 
took  the  horses,  and  Francois  wondered  if  he  had 
heard  aright  that  Alixe  called  him  "little  Battista". 
Wondering  very  much  at  everything,  the  voices 
grew  far  away  and  the  faces  uncertain,  and  he  de 
cided  that  it  was  without  doubt  a  dream  and  that 
Battista  would  unlock  the  door  shortly  and  bring  in 
his  breakfast.  And  with  that  he  knew  nothing  more 
till  he  awoke  in  a  boat. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

REST    AND    SAFETY 

HE  heard  the  sound  of  waves  outside,  the  slip 
ping  of  ropes,  the  flapping  of  sails.  He  kept 
his  eyes  closed  a  few  minutes,  not  daring  to  open 
them.  There  was  a  blessed  atmosphere  of  rest  and 
safety  about  him;  he  feared  to  find  it  unreal  if  he 
opened  his  eyes.  He  feared  to  find  himself  in  the 
straw  of  a  dungeon.  He  listened  attentively — 
surely  sails  and  cordage  and  slapping  waves — and 
then  he  was  aware  of  the  motion  of  a  boat.  Cau 
tiously  he  peered  from  under  half-closed  lids.  A 
small  room,  a  boat's  cabin;  nothing  to  tell  if  he 
were  in  the  hands  of  friends  or  of  enemies.  Yet — • 
was  it  a  dream  that  he  had  seen  the  general  and 
Pietro,  had  ridden  long  miles  in  the  dawn .  with 
Alixe?  Such  dreams  come  to  comfort  poor  prison 
ers — he  knew  that.  But  at  that  point  his  eyes  flashed 
wide  and  his  arms  flew  out.  Something  more  had 
crept  into  that  circumscribed  field  of  his  vision — a 

235 


236  THE    MARSHAL 

quiet  figure  sitting  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  little 
room. 

"Alixe!" 

Not  a  dream,  not  another  world;  just  the  close 
sweetness  of  her  face  bent  over  him,  of  her  hands 
holding  his,  of  her  courageous  soft  voice  speaking 
to  him  caressingly  as  if  he  were  a  child,  as  if  he 
were  dear  to  her. 

"You  must  not  talk,  Frangois.  After  a  while — 
not  yet  You  are  very  weak." 

So  he  smiled  and  lay  happily,  clutching  her  hand 
with  his  long,  hot,  shaking  fingers,  like  a  bird's 
claws  for  thinness.  But  a  hunted  beast  may  not 
rest  absolutely  till  it  knows  if  the  bloodhounds  are 
distanced.  The  cavernous  eyes  turned  on  Alixe  with 
a  question,  and  she  understood. 

"You  want  to  know  if  you  are  safe,  dear  Fran- 
gois?"  and  she  stroked  his  hand.  "Yes.  You  are 
on  the  boat  of  little  Battista — Luigi's  boat  it  is  now. 
Little  Battista  gave  it  to  Luigi  when  he  went  to 
France,  and  Luigi  is  his  friend  and  also  one  of 
Pietro's  people.  You  will  hear  about  that  later. 
We  are  going  now  to  the  harbor  of  Commachio, 
sixty  miles  from  Castel forte.  You  are  to  be  put  on 
board  a  big  ship  there,  and  taken  away  to  safety. 
[Yet  you  are  safe  now — rest  in  that,  for  it  is  true." 


REST   AND    SAFETY  237 

And  Francois  drew  a  deep  trembling  breath  and, 
holding  Alixe's  hand,  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  next  his  eyes  opened  swiftly  and 
turned  to  the  corner  where  Alixe  had  sat.  It  was 
not  Alixe  there  this  time,  but  the  general.  And  the 
general  came  and  sat  down  by  him  and  patted  his 
hand  and  swore  softly  at  him  saying,  "sabre  de 
bois,"  and  "nom  d'un  chien"  and  such  things;  and 
called  him  his  own  boy,  and  told  him  how  his 
mother  and  father  were  well  and  confident  of  his 
rescue ;  yes,  and  told  him  also  how  it  was  Alixe  who 
had  waited  every  night  for  him  in  Riders'  Hollow, 
and  would  let  no  one  take  her  place. 

"It  was  the  best  arrangement,"  said  the  general. 
"For  Pietro  is  too  well  known — it  would  have  been 
unsafe  for  you  both.  And  I  am  so  much  the  old 
officer  that  I  should  have  been  remarked  instantly; 
also  I  am  heavy  in  the  saddle.  But  Alixe  passed 
easily  for  some  peasant  lad  with  a  led  horse  for  his 
master;  also  she  rides  light  and  so  could  save  the 
horses,  which  was  important,  for  only  two  horses 
could  we  have  and  they  were  to  be  in  service  one 
knew  not  how  long." 

Francois  asked  a  feeble  question. 

"Ah — Pietro.  He  is  a  fine  sort,  our  Pietro.  They 
adore  him,  here  in  his  country.  There  is  a  farmer 


238  THE    MARSHAL 

back  there  who  owed  life  and  home  to  the  Zappis, 
to  Pietro's  father  and  mother.  The  horses  were 
his.  They  were  brought  after  dark  and  returned 
before  sunrise,  but  it  was  far,  and  hard  on  the 
beasts.  And  a  risk  for  the  good  Giuseppi;  but  he 
was  glad  to  serve  Pietro;  they  adore  Pietro." 

Quite  malapropos,  the  general  leaned  over  at  this 
point  and  stretched  out  a  heavy  hand  and  patted 
Francois'  pale  cheek  and  smiled  and  said,  as  he  had 
said  so  many  years  ago  on  that  morning  when  the 
news  came  of  the  marquis'  death,  "It  is  a  good 
thing  to  have  a  son,  my  Franqois."  And  Francois, 
being  fed  shortly  after,  fell  asleep  again  like  a  tired 
baby. 

And  the  next  time  he  awoke  it  was  with  a  new 
feeling ;  with  a  desire  and  a  hope  to  live.  Pietro  sat 
watching  him  and  brought  him  warm  milk  and  held 
his  head  up  as  he  drank  it,  like  a  woman.  Then,  in 
quiet  slow  tones,  he  explained  all  the  puzzle  which 
Francois  had  -by  now  begun  to  wonder  over.  It 
seemed  that  just  before  little  Battista  had  brought 
Frangois'  letter  to  Vieques,  Pietro  had  received  an 
other  unexpected  letter,  from  a  Colonel  Hampton 
in  Virginia,  whose  estate  lay  next  the  six  thousand 
acres  of  land  which  the  Marquis  Zappi  had  bought 
fifteen  years  before.  Colonel  Hampton  wrote  with* 


Holding  Alixe's   hand,   Frangois   fell  asleep. 


REST   AND    SAFETY  239 

two  requests.  The  first  was  that  the  Marquis  Zappi 
should  come  to  Virginia,  or  send  some  one  with 
authority  to  look  after  his  property.  The  land  was 
going  to  rack  and  ruin  for  want  of  management; 
the  uncontrolled  slaves  on  the  place  were  demoral 
izing  to  the  neighborhood.  Colonel  Hampton  had 
done  what  he  could,  but  he  had  not  the  power  of  a 
master,  and  moreover  he  was  busy  with  his  own 
large  estate.  The  marquis  should  come  or  send  a 
qualified  agent  and  at  once. 

The  next  object  of  the  letter  was  to  ask  that  the 
marquis  should  receive  and  entertain  the  nephew  of 
Colonel  Hampton,  Mr.  Henry  Hampton,  who,  sail 
ing  on  Colonel  Hampton's  ship,  the  Lovely  Lucy, 
would  bring  this  letter  to  the  marquis.  The  ship 
would  go  first  to  England  and  discharge  there  her 
cargo  of  tobacco,  and  after  that  it  was  to  be  at  the 
service  of  young  Mr.  Hampton,  to  visit  such  coun 
tries  of  Europe  as  he  might  choose,  for  six  months. 
Mr.  Hampton  had  many  letters  to  people  in  Eng 
land,  but  none  elsewhere,  and  Colonel  Hampton 
would  be  obliged  if  the  marquis  would  receive  him 
at  his  estate  of  Castelforte  and  let  him  see  something 
of  Italy  from  that  point  of  vantage.  The  marquis 
might  then,  if  he  thought  good,  return  to  Virginia 
in  the  Lovely  Lucy,  and  either  set  matters  on  a  firm 


240  THE   MARSHAL" 

enough  footing  to  be  left,  or  else — which  the  colonel 
considered  the  better  plan — stay  with  them  and  be 
come  a  country  gentleman  of  Virginia.  The  colonel 
had  heard  that  there  had  been  political  trouble  in 
Italy,  but  hoped  that  at  this  time  the  country  was 
at  peace  and  the  marquis  comfortably  established  in 
his  own  castle. 

All  this  the  young  marquis,  an  exile  of  five  years 
from  his  native  land,  had  read  at  the  chateau  of 
Vieques.  He  had  considered  deeply  as  to  what  he 
might  do  about  Carnifax,  his  estate  in  Virginia.  He 
could  not  go  himself,  for  he  was  in  close  connection 
with  the  work  of  Italian  patriots  outside  and  inside 
of  Italy;  with  Mazzini  in  London;  with  others  in 
other  places.  And  he  did  not  know  any  one  whom 
he  could  send. 

So  the  matter  stood  when  the  big  little  Battista 
had  brought  Francois'  letter  to  Vieques.  And  when 
Alixe  had  appealed  to  him  to  take  Franqois'  libera 
tion  on  his  shoulders,  with  the  thought  of  the  secret 
passage  and  the  vaguely  outlined  plan  of  escape  had 
come  to  him  the  recollection  of  Colonel  Hampton's 
letter  and  the  long  sea  voyage  to  Virginia. 

So  when  Mr.  Henry  Hampton  landed  at  Calais, 
a  tall  and  very  handsome  and  very  silent  young 
man  took  quiet  possession  of  him  and  told  him  that 


REST   AND    SAFETY  241 

he  was  the  Marquis  Zappi  and  that  Mr.  Hampton 
was  to  go  with  him  to  the  chateau  of  Vieques  in  the 
Jura.  There  was  a  certain  gentle  force  about  this 
young  marquis  which  made  opposition  to  his  ex 
pressed  wish  something  like  banging  one's  head 
against  a  stone  wall.  Mr.  Henry  Hampton  had 
planned  going  direct  to  Paris,  but  he  went  to 
Vieques.  And  on  the  journey  down  the  Marquis 
Zappi  opened  out  a  plan  which  richly  rewarded  him 
for  his  pliability.  Mr.  Hampton  had  somewhat 
clearer  ideas  on  Italian  politics  than  his  uncle;  he 
knew  enough  to  detest  the  Austrians  and  to  have  a 
keen  sympathy  for  the  long,  heroic,  losing  fight — so 
far  losing — of  those  devoted  men  who  were  count 
ing  their  lives  as  nothing  for  a  united  Italy.  The 
scheme  of  helping  to  rescue  a  prisoner  out  of  an 
Austrian  fortress  was  an  adventure  such  as  made 
his  eyes  dance.  Mr.  Hampton  was  twenty-one  and 
full  of  romance,  romance  as  yet  ungratified.  So, 
Pietro  told  Francois,  this  long  explanation  over,  the 
Lovely  Lucy  was  anchored  at  an  unimportant  island 
outside  the  port  for  which  they  were  bound,  and 
Francois  and  the  others  were  to  go  on  board  and 
set  sail  promptly  for  some  port  of  France.  There 
the  general,  Alixe,  Pietro  and  little  Battista  were 
to  be  put  ashore,  and  Francois  was  to  sail  across  to 


242  THE    MARSHAL 

Virginia  with  Mr.  Hampton  and  take  possession  for 
Pietro  of  his  American  estates. 

Francois,  lying  in  bed  with  his  eyes  glowing  like 
lanterns,  listened.  But  as  his  friend  finished  he 
broke  out,  with  a  sharp  pain  in  his  voice. 

"Pietro !    I  want  to  see  my  mother." 

And  Pietro  was  silent,  laying  a  quiet  hand  over 
the  unsteady  one.  Without  a  word  he  sat  so  and 
let  the  sick  man  think.  The  line  of  red  which  came 
into  the  pale  cheeks  told  that  he  was  thinking  in 
tensely,  and  at  last,  with  a  shivering  sigh  which  went 
to  the  other's  heart : 

"You  are  right,  Pietro,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  won 
derful  plan  for  a  broken  man.  It  is  like  you  to  do 
everything  right  without  a  word  said.  The  sea  voy 
age,  the  healthy  life  in  Virginia — that  ought  to  make 
a  man  of  me  again  soon,  ought  it  not,  Pietro?" 

Pietro  could  not  speak  as  he  looked  at  the  wrecked 
figure,  but  he  nodded  cheerfully. 

"As  for  your  place,  I'll  have  that  in  order  in  a 
month,  and  in  a  year  it  will  be  a  model  for  Virginia ; 
and  then  I'll  come  home." 

Pietro  smiled. 

"Come  home  and  fight  for  the  Prince — for  our 
Prince  Louis.  Do  you  remember  that  afternoon  at 
the  chateau,  Pietro,  and  the  strange  boy,  and  how 


REST    AND    SAFETY  243 

he  fascinated  us  and  how — "  the  weak  voice  stopped 
at  every  few  syllables,  but  slipped  on  again  cheer 
fully.  The  familiar  charm  of  the  boy  Frangois  was 
strong  as  he  talked.  "And  how  he  was  not  to  be 
frightened  by  any  danger  of  an  old  wall — "  and 
Francois  stopped,  smiling. 

"And  how  you  saved  him,"  Pietro  added. 

"That  was  a  chance,"  said  Francois  quickly. 
"But,  Pietro,  do  you  remember  how  Alixe  turned 
on  you,  because  I  had  done  it?  Droll  little  Alixe!" 

"She  always  scorned  me  because  I  was  not  won 
derful  like  you,  Francois.  You  were  always  the 
hero,"  Pietro  said  gently,  and  pressed  the  skeleton 
hand  under  his  own. 

Francois'  eyes  blazed  up  at  him  then  as  they  had 
done  so  often  in  boyhood.  "Not  that,  Pietro.  You 
do  not  understand.  It  was  because  Alixe  wished 
always  to  see  you  first.  I  was  older  and  had  a  cer 
tain  quickness — she  wanted  you  to  have  my  poor 
facility  as  well  as  all  of  your  own  gifts." 

Pietro  smiled  his  kind  quiet  smile.  "My  Fran- 
gois,  I  have  no  gifts.  And  if  Alixe  is  more  proud 
of  you  it  is  right,  for  you  are  a  pride  to  all  of  us 
and  I  am  the  last  to  grudge  one  particle  of  honor 
or  love  to  you.  Francois" — Pietro's  deep  voice 
stopped,  and  then  he  went  on  in  his  straightforward, 


244  THE    MARSHAL' 

simple  way — "Frangois,  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  have  you,  my  brother, 
back  from  the  dead." 

And  weak,  nerve-wrecked  Frangois,  holding  tight 
to  Pietro's  hand,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and 
cried. 

Now  that  the  end  of  effort  was  over,  the  strain 
of  the  long  years  showed  their  effects  in  a  collapse; 
the  stretched  chord  had  fallen  loose,  relaxed  as  if 
it  might  never  make  music  again.  When  the  time 
came  to  leave  the  sail-boat  of  Luigi  and  go  aboard 
the  Lovely  Lucy,  the  effort  was  too  much  for  the 
man  who,  two  nights  before,  had  shown  the  nerve 
and  agility  of  an  acrobat.  When  he  must  leave  the 
boat  and  make  the  change,  he  fainted,  and,  wrapped 
in  a  blanket,  ghastly  white,  unconscious,  the  little 
Battista  carried  his  light  weight  up  the  ladder  of  the 
American  ship. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    SACRIFICE 

YOUNG  Henry  Hampton,  thrilled  to  the  core  at 
this  drama,  bent  over  him,  as  Battista  laid  him 
on  the  deck,  and  looked  up  anxiously  at  Pietro. 

"Is  he  living?"  he  asked. 

He  was  living,  though  for  an  hour  or  two  the  de 
voted  friends  who  cared  for  him  doubted  if  they 
had  not  got  him  back  only  to  lose  him.  But  that  last 
effort  of  the  change  to  the  ship  being  past,  when 
consciousness  came  again  he  grew  strong  more  rap 
idly. 

"I  thought — the  Austrians — would  nab  me — as  I 
came  aboard,"  he  whispered,  smiling  gaily  as  he 
gasped  the  words  to  Alixe.  "It  was — firm  in  my 
mind." 

And  Alixe  laughed  at  him  and  told  him  that  they 
were  far  out  on  the  Adriatic  now,  safe  under  the 
American  flag,  and  the  Austrians  left  two  hundred 
miles  behind. 

245 


246  THE    MARSHAL 

"Even  if  they  had — nabbed  me,"  whispered  Fran- 
c,ois,  "those  two  days  with  you  would  have  paid." 

And  Alixe  shuddered  a  little  and  told  him  to  go 
to  sleep  and  stop  thinking  of  Austrians,  for  they 
were  out  of  his  life  now  forever. 

"My  Seigneur,"  said  Francois  next  day  when  the 
general  took  his  turn  at  sitting  by  his  bed,  "may  I 
ask  a  question  ?" 

"Any  question  in  the  world,  Francois,  my  son," 
the  general  growled  at  him,  as  if  the  tender  words 
were  a  defiance  to  an  enemy. 

Francois  hesitated.    "About  Alixe  and  Pietro." 

The  general  shook  his  head.  "Ah  that!  That  I 
can  not  tell  you,  Francois.  Sometimes  I  believe  that 
I  have  been  mistaken,  that —  '  the  general  as  he 
stopped  looked  oddly  at  Francois  and  smiled. 
"Sometimes  I  believe  that  even  I,  even  Gaspard 
Gourgaud,  might  make  a  mistake  in  trying  to  play 
the  good  God,  and  arranging  lives.  That  might  be- 
yes.  In  any  case  I  can  not  tell." 

Frangois,  thinking  deeply,  hazarded  another  ques 
tion.  "He  loves  her?" 

"I  believe  so,  indeed,"  said  the  general.  "He 
cares  most  to  be  with  us — with  her.  Ah  yes,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  he  loves  her.  But  why  it  goes  no  far 
ther — sapristi!  It  is  beyond  me — that!  I  would 


THE    SACRIFICE  247 

knock  their  foolish  heads  together,  me — but  that 
is  not  convenient." 

"Does  she  love  Pietro?" 

"Mon  Dieu!  How  can  a  mere  man  say  that?  She 
is  a  woman.  I  do  not  know — not  in  the  least,"  the 
general  exploded  at  him. 

"But  Pietro  loves  her?"  Francois  asked  again,  his 
wistful  smiling  eyes  searching  the  general's  face. 

"Yes — I  am  sure  of  it." 

And  Franqois  smiled. 

"No  one  could  help  it,"  he  said  half  to  himself. 

In  a  day  more  little  Battista  came  into  Francois' 
cabin  and  put  clothes  on  him  and  wrapped  him  like 
a  mummy  in  coats  and  rugs,  and  carried  him  in  his 
arms  up  on  deck,  and  there  laid  him  in  a  hammock 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  ship.  And  the  salt  air  blew 
on  his  face  and  he  gulped  it  in,  and  by  and  by  Alixe 
brought  a  chair  and  sat  by  him  and  read  to  him,  and 
Francois  lay  quiet  and  wondered  if  heaven  could  be 
any  improvement  on  this. 

Then,  after  a  while,  the  book  lay  on  the  girl's 
knee,  and  they  fell  to  talking.  She  told  him  about 
his  mother  and  his  father  at  the  Ferme  du  Veil,  and 
the  brothers  and  sisters,  grown  up  now,  and  some 
of  them  in  homes  of  their  own.  She  told  him  about 
Pierre's  new  wife,  who  had  been  Jeanne  Courtois,  of 


248  THE   MARSHAL 

Beaulieu,  and  how  much  they  all  liked  her,  and  how 
she  and  Pierre  lived  at  the  farm  and  were  to  have 
it  one  day  after  the  older  Frangois  and  Claire  had 
gone.  About  Tomas  and  his  fine  big  shop  at  Deles- 
montes  she  told  him,  and  how  little  Lucie  had  mar 
ried  the  school-teacher,  and  had  a  pretty  house  in 
a  street  he  knew  well. 

Then  she  told  him  about  the  animals — how  the 
great  gray  horses  he  had  known  still  drew  the  gold 
en  loads  of  hay  in  from  the  fields,  with  their  grand 
children  drawing  the  next  wagon.  How  the  ducks 
in  the  pond  were  hundreds  now  and  were  sent  to  the 
market,  and  made  much  money  for  Le  Francois. 
And  how  that  old  gift  of  his  in  choosing  oxen  was 
making  a  fortune  for  him — only  now  he  never 
played  cards  coming  home  from  market  day, — or 
at  any  other  time.  In  fact,  the  gentle  mother  had 
made  one  stern  rule  for  her  family — no  one  of  them 
ever  played  since  that  time  a  game  of  chance. 

And  then  Alixe  told  Francois  about  the  castle. 
She  told  him  about  Jean  Phillippe  Moison  and  his 
brazen  curiosity  in  staying  to  hear  the  prisoner's 
letter,  and  his  address  of  thanks  to  the  Almighty 
when  he  knew  that  Francois  was  alive.  And  she 
told  him  about  little  old  Coq — now  an  aged  horse 
of  twenty-five  years,  spoiled  and  naughty,  but  yet 


THE    SACRIFICE  249 

beloved  and  used  only  for  his  own  health's  sake; 
she  told  how  Coq  would  run  to  her  for  sugar  and 
burrow  his  bold  nose  into  her  coat  pocket,  snorting 
impatiently ;  and  how  he  had  thrown  Moison's  little 
girl  over  his  head  two  months  before  as  he  used  to 
throw  all  of  them. 

So,  on  that  long,  bright,  calm  morning  at  sea 
Francois  lay  in  the  hammock  and  watched  the  mil 
lion  little  waves  glisten  and  break  for  unknown  miles 
over  the  sunlit  water,  and  listened  to  the  voice  he 
loved  best  in  the  world,  as  it  told  him  of  those  others 
whom  he  loved  also,  and  of  the  places  dear  to  him ; 
and  he  wondered  that  he  had  indeed  come  through 
the  long  nightmare  of  prison  to  this  happiness. 

"Mr.  Hampton  has  been  talking  to  me  about  Vir 
ginia;  it  must  be  a  beautiful  country,"  said  Alixe. 
"I  should  love  the  free  friendly  life  of  those  great 
domains.  I  believe  I  could  leave  France  and  Vie 
ques  for  such  a  country  as  that,  where  there  are  no 
political  volcanoes  on  top  of  which  one  must  live. 
With  us  it  is  always  plotting  and  secrecy.  Al 
ways  a  war  to  look  back  on  or  to  look  forward  to. 
I  should  like  to  go  to  Virginia." 

"But,"  said  Frangois,  with  his  great  eyes  glowing, 
"the  war  one  now  looks  forward  to  in  France  will  be 
short  and  glorious.  And  after  that  will  be  peace, 


250  THE    MARSHAL 

for  there  will  be  a  Bonaparte  ruling,  and  that  means 
strength  and  good  government." 

"How  you  believe  in  the  Great  Captain  and  in 
his  blood,"  and  Alixe  smiled  down  at  the  pale  face 
on  fire  with  its  lifelong  enthusiasm. 

"One  must,"  said  Francois  simply,  and  paused, 
and  went  on.  "For  me — you  know,  Alixe,  how  it 
is.  How  the  star  of  the  Bonapartes  has  always 
seemed  to  be  my  star !  I  believe  that.  I  believe  that 
my  life  is  tied  to  that  house.  Napoleon  was  more 
than  human  to  my  mind,  and  his  touch  set  me  aside 
for  his  uses  in  my  cradle." 

"And  made  you  a  Chevalier,"  Alixe  considered. 
"That  was  a  true  accolade,  Frangois.  You  would 
have  a  right  to  that  title  under  another  Bonaparte." 

"I  believe  so,  Alixe." 

"And  my  father  believes  it.  So  you  must  hurry 
and  get  well  and  come  back  to  France  and  be  fit 
for  work  when  the  Prince  needs  you,  Chevalier 
Beaupre.  My  father  has  told  you  that  a  movement 
is  preparing?  He  is  reckless,  my  father,  and  it 
troubles  me.  It  might  be  unsafe  for  him  to  live 
in  France  if  his  part  in  these  plots  were  known." 

"Then  you  could  come  to  Virginia — to  Carnifax," 
and  Frangois  smiled. 

But  Alixe  flushed.     "That  is  Pietro's  estate,  not 


THE    SACRIFICE  251 

ours,"  she  said  quickly;  and  then  she  rose  and  bent 
over  the  sick  boy.  "I  must  go  to  my  father  now," 
she  said,  and  caught  his  pitiful  hands  suddenly  in 
both  hers.  "But  oh!  Francois,  I  wish  I  could  tell 
you  how  it  changes  all  the  world  to  have  you  back 
again" — and  she  was  gone. 

Francois,  trembling  with  a  rapture  he  could  not 
quiet,  lay,  not  stirring,  because  he  feared  to  break 
the  spell  of  the  touch  of  her  hands;  feeling  within 
him  a  rebel  hope  that  yet  he  would  not  let  take 
hold  of  him.  Could  it  be?  Was  it  true?  Did  she 
care  for  him  and  not  for  Pietro?  Was  that  the 
reason  that  in  all  these  years  she  and  Pietro  were 
still  only  sister  and  brother?  Yet,  he  caught  and 
choked  the  thought.  Even  then  he  had  no  right, 
he  could  not,  would  not  tell  her  what  she  was  to 
him.  He  would  be  Pietro's  friend  always  as  he  had 
promised  long  ago;  more,  a  thousand  times  more 
now,  when  Pietro  had  given  back  to  him  freedom 
and  life  and  hope.  Pietro  loved  her;  she  would 
come  to  love  Pietro  in  time;  he  would  never  take 
her  from  him,  even  if  he  could.  What  was  his  own 
happiness  compared  to  that  of  these  two  so  close 
and  dear?  And  also  it  was  a  bitter  bliss  to  sacri 
fice  his  joy  for  that  of  his  seigneur,  for  the  man 
who  had  given  him  everything.  To  Franqois,  smil- 


252  THE   MARSHAL 

ing  out  at  the  sunny  ocean,  giving  up  the  love  of 
his  life,  came  that  other  blessedness  of  renunciation, 
and  he  was  happy. 

The  next  day  the  general  and  Alixe  and  Pietro 
and  the  little  Battista  were  put  ashore  in  France, 
and  the  Lovely  Lucy  sailed  on  with  young  Henry 
Hampton  and  Francois  to  Virginia. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A   SOCIAL   CRISIS 

ON  a  day  the  ship  sailed  into  a  splendid  road 
stead,  big  enough  to  hold  the  ships  of  half 
the  world.  Then  into  a  wide  flashing  river,  the 
James  River,  four  or  five  miles  wide  down  there  at 
its  mouth.  And  up  and  up  and  up  the  bright  river, 
the  narrowing  river,  between  its  low  green  banks, 
with  now  and  again  a  glimpse  of  a  large  house  and 
of  gardens  and  lawns  green  with  June,  as  one  sailed 
past. 

Harry  Hampton  told  Francois  who  lived  in  them 
as  they  went  by — Harrisons  and  Carters  and  Byrds 
and  Randolphs — strange-sounding,  difficult,  English 
names  in  the  ear  of  the  Frenchman.  Young  Mr. 
Hampton  knew  them  all,  it  seemed;  many  of  them 
were  his  cousins ;  Francois  listened,  surprised,  inter 
ested,  to  the  word  picture  which  the  Virginian  un 
consciously  drew,  as  he  talked  of  e very-day  happen 
ings,  of  a  society  and  a  way  of  living  quite  different 
from  any  the  Frenchman  had  ever  heard  of. 

253 


254  THE    MARSHAL 

With  that  they  were  in  sight  of  Roanoke  House — 
one  might  see  the  roofs  of  the  buildings  over  the 
trees — Harry  Hampton  pointed  it  out  with  a  touch 
of  excitement  in  his  grave  manner.  Then,  as  one 
slipped  along  the  sparkling  water,  there  was  a  sharp 
bend  in  the  stream,  and  as  they  turned  it  the  large 
silvery  green  slope  of  the  lawn  lay  before  them, 
with  its  long  wharf  and  barges  lying  at  the  water 
side,  and  a  ship  unloading  its  return  cargo  from 
England. 

"It  is  the  Sea  Lady}'  called  young  Hampton.  "She 
is  in  before  us — and  she  sailed  so  long  after." 

He  made  a  quick  movement  forward  with  his 
pathetic  broken  step — for  this  only  son  of  the  Hamp 
ton  family  was  a  cripple. 

There  were  people  gathering  on  the  lawn,  negroes 
drawn  up  in  line;  the  women  in  bright-colored  tur 
bans,  men  and  women  both  showing  white  teeth  as 
they  grinned  with  the  pleasure  and  the  excitement 
of  watching  the  ship  come  in.  Then  a  white  light 
figure  ran  down  the  broad  greenness,  and  a  girl 
stood,  golden  curls  on  her  shoulders,  a  straw  hat 
with  blue  ribbons  tying  down  some  of  the  golden 
curls,  but  not  all — stood  and  watched  and  waved  an 
eager  friendly  hand. 

"It  is  my  cousin  Lucy,"  Harry  Hampton  said, 


A    SOCIAL    CRISIS  255 

and  Franqois,  looking  at  him,  saw  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  intently. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  leaving  the  ship  with  his 
halting  careful  step,  Francois  saw  him  kiss  her 
cousinly — yet  it  seemed  not  altogether  cousinly — 
and  with  that  he  was  saying  a  word  about  "My 
new  friend,  the  Chevalier  Beaupre,"  and  the  girl's 
quick  hand-clasp  and  the  warm  welcome  in  her  voice 
of  honey,  made  Francois  feel  as  if  a  place  in  her 
friendship  had  -been  waiting  for  him  always. 

Then,  from  back  of  her,  from  somewhere,  tower 
ed  suddenly  a  tall  man,  with  large  features,  and 
first  seized  Harry  Hampton's  hand  and  then  turned 
to  the  stranger  with  the  same  air  of  entire  pleasure 
and  hopitality. 

"My  nephew's  friend  is  welcome  at  Roanoke 
House,"  he  said,  and  Francois,  with  his  few  words 
of  English,  understood  enough  to  be  warmed  to  the 
soul  at  his  first  contact  with  southern  hospitality. 

"It  is  my  uncle,  Colonel  Hampton,"  Harry's 
voice  was  explaining. 

They  would  not  hear  of  his  going  to  Carnifax — 
not  for  days,  not  for  a  month;  why  should  he  go 
at  all? — Colonel  Hampton  asked.  If  he  were  to  be 
only  a  year  or  two  in  Virginia,  why  trouble  to  set 
up  housekeeping  alone  in  that  big  house,  when  Roan- 


256  THE   MARSHAL 

oke  House  was  here  and  in  order,  and  only  too  glad 
to  keep  him.  So  Francois  for  a  week  or  two  stayed. 
And  found  himself,  shortly,  a  notability.  Harry 
Hampton,  his  boyish  ambition  for  adventure  and 
daring  denied  every  personal  outlet,  because  of  that 
accident  in  babyhood  which  had  started  him  in  life 
hopelessly  lame,  was  as  proud  of  his  salvage  from 
the  Austrian  bird  of  prey  as  if  Francois'  record 
had  been  his  own.  Much  more  frankly  proud,  for 
he  could  talk  about  it,  and  did.  Alixe  had  told  him 
a  great  deal,  and  the  episode  of  the  headlong  rescue 
of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon,  the  capture  and  imprison 
ment  and  final  theatrical  escape,  went  like  wild-fire, 
about  the  countryside,  and  stirred  all  the  romance  of 
the  warm-blooded  southerners.  Every  house  want 
ed  the  hero  to  break  bread,  and  under  young  Harry's 
proud  wing  Francois  went  gladly  to  meet  all  these 
friends  of  his  friend.  As  the  general  had  said  years 
ago,  his  simplicity  struck  the  finest  note  of  sophisti 
cated  high  breeding;  moreover,  he  had  lived  with 
high-bred  people  in  more  than  one  country ;  the  aris 
tocrats  of  Virginia  were  delighted  with  his  young 
nobleman,  as  they  thought  him — with  his  charm  of 
manner  and  his  stirring  history,  with  the  lines  of 
suffering  still  in  his  thin  face  and  the  broad  lock 
of  gray — the  badge  of  that  suffering — in  his  dark 


A    SOCIAL    CRISIS  257 

hair;  with  the  quaint  foreign  accent  too,  and  the 
unexpectedness  in  the  turns  of  his  rapidly  increas 
ing  English. 

Francois  accepted  the  title  of  Chevalier,  which 
Alixe  had  given  him  in  speaking  to  Henry  Hamp 
ton,  and  which  Henry  Hampton  used  in  introduc 
ing  him  to  the  noblesse  of  the  South,  partly  because 
he  believed  it  his,  partly  because  it  pleased  the  child 
like  French  vanity  in  him.  He  had  no  thought  of 
claiming  a  social  position  not  his  own ;  no  thought 
that  a  social  position  might  count  with  these  hospit 
able  new  friends.  Names  known  in  American  his 
tory  were  spoken  at  the  dinner-table  of  those  days 
in  Virginia. 

"It  is  the  Chevalier  Beaupre,  Mr.  Clay,"  Lucy 
Hampton  answered  a  question  from  a  tall  man  with 
a  great  domed  head. 

She  was  placed  next  him  at  a  dinner  at  Martin's 
Brandon,  the  old  home  of  the  Harrisons.  "The 
young  man  with  the  band  of  white  in  his  hair — 
it  is  the  Chevalier  Beaupre — of  France.  He  is  stay 
ing  at  Roanoke."  And  she  went  on  eagerly  to  give 
a  quick  summary  of  the  history  of  this  stranger, 
whose  personality  attracted  the  interest  of  so  dis 
tinguished  a  person.  As  she  talked,  Henry  Clay,  of 
Kentucky,  bending  to  listen  to  her  sliding  speech, 


258  THE    MARSHAL 

watched,  under  his  deep  brow,  the  man  across  the 
table. 

"It  is  a  good  deal  of  history  for  a  man  of  twenty- 
six,"  Clay  considered,  and  with  that  his  resonant 
assured  voice  lifted  across  the  talk  of  the  dinner- 
table.  "Chevalier  Beaupre!" 

Francois  turned  swiftly,  and  his  great  dark  eyes 
met  the  piercing  look  of  the  great  statesman.  "Mais 
oui,  Monsieur" — he  dropped  back  into  his  own 
tongue  at  a  sudden  touch,  always. 

Careless  of  the  silence  which  fell  on  the  long  table, 
Henry  Clay  went  on  in  his  clear  masterful  tones. 
"Miss  Hampton  tells  me  that  you  are  of  the  Bona- 
partist  side  of  French  politics.  That  interests  me. 
I  should  like  to  get  an  idea  of  the  strength  of  that 
faction  in  France.  You  come,  I  suppose,  of  a 
Bonapartist  family.  Was  your  house  royalist  be 
fore  the  revolution?  And  in  what  part  of  France 
did  your  lands  lie?" 

The  twenty  odd  people,  leaders  of  the  Virginian 
aristocracy,  bent  forward  from  this  side  and  that 
of  the  table  to  hear  the  reply.  It  came  easily, 
promptly,  in  the  deep,  clear,  young  voice,  which  they 
had  all  begun  to  know. 

"But,  Monsieur — I  have  no  house.  I  am  a  peas 
ant.  My  father  holds  a  farm  from  the  Seigneur 


A    SOCIAL    CRISIS  259 

of  Vieques,  in  the  valley  of  the  Jura.  It  is  all 
the  land  we  have."  The  exquisite  radiant  smile  of 
the  child  of  the  cottage  of  La  Claire  shone  across 
the  silver  and  glass  of  the  glittering  dinner-table 
of  Brandon,  unconscious  of  the  startled  eyes  star 
ing  all  one  way  in  that  dramatic  silence. 

Human  nature  is  mostly  good  enough  to  ring  true 
to  the  touch  of  truth.  It  is  also  quick  to  be  kindly 
when  kindliness  is  the  lead  of  greatness.  Clay,  of 
Kentucky,  was  genuinely  great.  He  bowed  with  a 
gentler  courtesy  than  common  to  the  bright  steady 
face  opposite  him. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "it  is  finer  to  have  a  heroic  record 
than  to  have  family  and  lands.  I  took  it  for  grant 
ed  you  had  everything,  for  you  seem  a  darling  of 
the  gods.  I  congratulate  you  that  the  realities  which 
men  strive  for  during  long  lives — greatness  of  spirit 
and  greatness  of  action — have  come  to  you  at 
twenty-six.  May  I  look  forward  to  some  talk  with 
you  after  dinner  on  French  politics?" 

And  Francois,  answering  eagerly,  with  the  pleas 
ure  in  pleasing  which  was  part  of  his  magic,  did 
not  suspect  that  he  had  passed  a  crisis.  Missing  by 
a  hair's-breadth  a  social  shipwreck,  which  he  would 
not  have  realized  or  regarded,  the  Chevalier  Beau- 
pre  stood  hereafter  in  Virginia  society  on  his  own 


260  THE    MARSHAL 

feet,  a  peasant  born,  yet  a  lion.  People  wondered 
how  he  was  a  chevalier,  but  not  even  Harry  Hamp 
ton  cared  to  ask  him,  and  it  was  a  tale  which  lay 
too  deep  in  his  heart  to  be  told  often. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CAPTAIN    OF    THE   TROOP 

AND  now  he  had  left  Roanoke,  and  was  living 
JL  jLin  the  great  old  house  on  Pietro's  land,  the 
old  house  which  had  been  lived  in  a  hundred  years 
before  Pietro's  father  had  bought  it,  the  old  house 
in  which  grandchildren  of  Pietro  live  to-day. 

Something  in  his  odd  broken  English,  something 
in  his  vivacity  and  energy,  something  in  the  warmth 
of  the  heart  which  the  poor  souls  felt  in  him — none 
quicker  than  negroes  to  feel  a  heart — fascinated  the 
slaves  who  fell  to  his  unaccustomed  management. 
He  had  met  Henry  Clay  and  the  proud  aristocrats 
of  Virginia  as  men  and  women,  and  given  them  the 
best  of  himself;  he  met  these  thick-lipped,  dim- 
souled,  black  people  no  otherwise,  and  gave  them  the 
same.  By  the  crystal  truth  in  him  the  first  had  been 
vanquished,  and  it  happened  not  differently  with 
these  other  human  beings.  Pietro's  mishandled 
property  grew  orderly  month  by  month;  Francois, 
in  the  saddle  most  of  the  time,  riding  from  end  to 

261 


262  THE    MARSHAL 

end  of  the  plantation,  found  his  hands  full  and  his 
work  interesting,  and  his  health  and  strength  coming 
back — though  that  was  a  slower  progress. 

The  people  who  do  most  are  likely  to  be  the  peo 
ple  who  can  do  a  thing  more.  Young  Henry  Hamp 
ton,  ruled  out  of  the  larger  part  of  his  natural 
pleasures  by  that  stern  by-law  of  nature,  which  had 
made  him  lame,  appealed  to  Francois'  sympathy 
every  day  more  deeply.  In  his  devotion  to  his  dis 
covery,  his  brand  from  the  Austrian  burning,  his 
own  peculiar  friend — all  this  Harry  considered 
Francois  to  be — the  boy  was  very  much  at  Carni- 
fax,  and  the  older  man,  hardly  more  than  a  boy 
himself,  came  to  know  the  suffering  it  meant  to 
a  strong  and  active  young  animal,  to  drag  a  ball 
and  chain.  The  sort  of  lad  who  would  have  led 
others  at  fencing,  wrestling,  swimming,  running — 
at  every  sport — he  had  to  sit  outside,  and  with  ach 
ing  heart  and  muscles  tingling  to  be  at  work,  to 
watch  his  friends.  He  was  generous  and  cheered 
on  the  others;  he  was  reserved  and  never  spoke  of 
himself;  people,  even  his  own  people  had  come 
to  take  his  lameness  for  granted,  had  forgotten  that 
the  trial  was  always  a  fresh  one  to  him.  But  Fran- 
c,ois  understood.  There  were  no  words  spoken  be 
tween  them,  but  Francois,  full  of  warm  friendliness 


CAPTAIN    OF    THE   TROOP         263 

toward  this  boy  who  had  helped  him  back  to  life, 
turned  things  over  in  his  mind  and  found  a  scheme 
which  seemed  to  promise  pleasure  for  young  Hamp 
ton — which  seemed  besides  to  be  good  practise  for 
the  work  to  which  the  gaze  of  Francois  looked  for 
ward  steadily,  through  and  beyond  all  this  tempo 
rary  living — the  work  of  fighting  for  the  Bona- 
partes. 

The  one  thing  which  the  lad  could  do  was  riding. 
"Henry,"  Francois  spoke,  as  the  two  trotted  to 
gether  down  a  shady  lane  of  the  plantation  on  the 
way  to  the  far  fields  where  negroes  worked  in  the 
autumn  sunlight,  "what  would  you  think  of  organiz 
ing  a  mounted  troop  of  militia?" 

The  boy's  face  flamed  with  excitement.  What 
would  he  think  of  it?  He  would  think  it  glorious, 
wonderful,  half  a  dozen  big  adjectives. 

There  were  many  young  men  in  the  neighbor 
hood;  all  of  them  rode;  none  of  them  had  enough 
to  do;  Franqois  had  a  hold  on  them — a  man  may 
not  spend  five  years  in  a  dungeon  because  of  a 
dashing  mad  act  of  bravery  without  acquiring  a 
halo  which  adheres  afterward;  it  was  fairly  cer 
tain  that  a  military  company,  originating  with  the 
Chevalier  Beaupre,  would  succeed.  And  it  succeed 
ed.  Three  days  later  it  was  started  with  the  cor- 


264  THE    MARSHAL 

dial  sanction  of  the  fathers  and  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  sons.  Francois  was,  of  course,  the  moving  spirit 
and  the  responsible  head,  and  Francois  was  hard 
at  work  calling  back  the  old  lore  of  his  school-days 
at  Saint-Cyr  and  reading  books  on  tactics  and  all 
military  subjects. 

"Henry,"  said  Colonel  Hampton  one  morning 
after  breakfast  at  Roanoke  House,  "I  want  to  speak 
to  you  a  moment  in  my  study." 

Harry  went  calmly  into  the  dim,  pleasant,  old 
room,  with  its  paneled  walls  and  portraits  set  into 
the  paneling;  he  had  no  fear  of  what  his  uncle 
might  say,  for  he  was  not  merely  the  young  nephew 
and  ward  living  in  his  uncle's  house — he  was  the 
owner  of  most  of  the  acres  which  made  the  plan 
tation  a  great  one.  Colonel  Hampton  considered 
that  in  his  treatment  of  Harry,  and  Harry  knew  it 
well  enough.  Moreover,  it  was  an  unspoken  secret 
that  Harry  or  Lucy  had  the  right  of  strength  over 
weakness  in  dealing  with  the  head  of  .the  house. 
Obstinacy  combined  sometimes  with  weakness,  it 
is  true,  but  yet  the  two  youngsters  understood 
clearly  that  the  colonel  was  the  head  only  by  a  grace 
ful  fiction.  So  young  Henry  Hampton  felt  no  alarm 
at  the  quality  of  his  uncle's  tone.  The  colonel  sat 
down  in  the  biggest  chair,  a  chair  throne-like  in  its 


CAPTAIN    OF    THE   TROOP         26$ 

dignity;  he  faced  the  lad  and  pulled  importantly 
at  the  end  of  his  mustache. 

"This  troop  of  cavalry  is  about  organized?"  he 
demanded. 

"Well,  that's  rather  a  big  name  for  it,  Uncle 
Henry,  but  it  is  going  like  a  streak,"  answered 
Henry,  junior.  "We  meet  again  to-day,  and  to 
morrow  I  think  we  shall  begin  business." 

"I  approve  of  it,"  Colonel  Hampton  stated. 

Harry  bowed  his  head  gravely.  The  colonel 
went  on. 

"It  is  a  well-bred  and  appropriate  method  of 
amusement.  A  gentleman  should  know  something 
of  military  affairs.  But — ah — the  ranking  and — 
ah — arrangements  ?  Such — details  are  not  unlikely, 
with  gentlemen  of  the  first  families,  as  you  all  are — 
except  one — to  crystallize  into  a — later  importance. 
The  man  who  has  been  the  leader  of  this  company 
of  very  young  men  will  not  unlikely  be  the  man 
thought  of  as  a  leader  in — ah — affairs  of  greater 
moment  to  come.  May  I  inquire  who  is  the  cap 
tain?" 

Henry  Hampton  looked  troubled,  impatient. 

"Why,  nobody  yet,  Uncle  Henry.  We  have  not 
got  to  that.  But,  of  course,  the  Chevalier- 
Colonel  Hampton  interrupted  him.  "Exactly. 


266  THE    MARSHAL 

I  thought  so.  That  is  what  I  wish  to  avoid.  The 
Chevalier  must  not  be  the  captain." 

The  boy  caught  up  the  words  hotly.  "Uncle 
Henry,  he  has  done  it  all.  We  all  want  him." 

"Exactly.  But  you  must  not  have  him.  I  am 
surprised  at  you,  Henry!  Do  you  remember  that 
this  man  is  peasant-born?  Do  you  want  to  be  led 
into  battle  by  a  person  whose  rank  is  not  above  that 
of  our  own  servants?" 

"Led  into  battle !"  Young  Henry  laughed  short 
ly.  "Led  into  a  corn  field  is  more  like  it."  And 
then  his  glance  fired.  "Moreover,  Uncle  Henry,  if 
there  were  battle  in  the  case,  we  should  all  count 
ourselves  lucky  to  be  led  by — a  hero." 

"A  hero!"  Colonel  Hampton  sniffed.  "A  mere 
French  peasant,  by  his  own  account.  Of  course,  I 
have — received  him,  because  of  your  infatuation  for 
him.  And — the  young  man  has  qualities.  He  has 
been  a  success  socially,  I  will  not  deny.  I  am  quite 
surprised  by  his  success.  But  when  it  comes  to  put 
ting  him  into  a  position  above  men  of  birth,  my 
blood  revolts.  I  request  you,  Henry,  to  use  your  in 
fluence  against  this.  I  can  not  endure  to  have  him 
give  you  commands.  You  should  be  the  captain, 
because  your  social  position  has  made  the  enterprise 
possible.  But,  yet,  if — your  misfortune — if  some 


CAPTAIN    OF    THE    TROOP         267 

other  seems  more  fit—  A  painful  color  dark 
ened  the  boy's  face  and  his  brows  gathered.  The 
colonel  went  on.  "I  should  make  no  objection  to 
that.  But" — again  he  pulled  at  the  corners  of  his 
mustache  with  solemnity — "I  must  request  you  to 
use  your  influence  absolutely  to  prevent  this  par 
venu  from  being  placed  over  you." 

Harry  Hampton  put  his  hand  on  the  table  beside 
him  and  lifting  himself  with  that  aid  stood  before 
his  uncle,  leaning  a  little  on  the  table  as  his  lame 
foot  made  it  necessary,  but  yet  a  figure  full  of  de 
cision  and  dignity. 

"And  I  must  refuse  absolutely,  Uncle  Henry,  to 
do  anything  of  the  kind.  I  am  not  in  question.  As 
you  say,  I  have — a  misfortune.  I  shall  use  what  in 
fluence  I  have  to  see  that  the  Chevalier  Beaupre 
is  made  captain  of  the  company  he  has  organized 
and  is  to  educate.  That  is  fitting.  I  am  proud 
to  call  him  my  friend,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  am  large- 
minded  enough  to  realize  that  as  large  a  mind  as  his 
is  not  to  be  measured  by  petty  standards.  If  he 
is  a  prince  or  if  he  is  a  peasant  is  quite  immate 
rial,  because  he  is  first  a  very  great  thing — himself." 
He  turned  from  the  astonished  colonel,  and  with 
his  halting  step  was  gone. 

Shortly  the  young  master's  horse  was  ordered  and 


268  THE    MARSHAL 

he  had  left  word  with  Ebenezer,  the  butler,  as  he 
went  out,  that  he  would  not  be  home  till  bedtime, 
and  was  off  toward  Carnifax. 

"Francois,"  he  began,  finding  his  friend  busy  over 
his  papers  in  that  same  library,  at  that  same  carved 
mahogany  desk,  where  to-day  lie  the  packages  of 
old  letters — "Francois,  I  want  to  speak  to  you — 
about  something — before  our  meeting." 

"What  then?  The  boy  is  out  of  breath.  You 
have  been  running  Black  Hawk  again,  my  Henry — 
that  horse  will  complain  of  you  soon,  the  strong 
beast.  What  is  it  you  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  say 
that  one  must  race  across  country  so  of  a  good 
hour  of  the  morning?" 

But  Henry  was  too  intent  to  talk  nothings.  "It  is 
important,"  he  said  briefly.  "We  must  have  a  cap 
tain  for  the  company  at  once,  and  it  must  be  you." 

"Sabre  de  bois!"  smiled  Francois  radiantly. 
"The  good  idea!  I  can  not  imagine  a  fellow  more 
beautiful  to  be  a  captain  than  I.  Can  you?" 

But  Henry  was  altogether  serious-minded.  "You 
will  consent  then?"  he  threw  at  him.  "I  did  not 
think  of  it  till  this  morning,  but  I  see  it  should  be 
done  at  once.  We  will  all  want  you,  of  course,  and 
want  nobody  else." 

Now  Henry  Hampton,  not  having  thought  of  the 


CAPTAIN    OF   THE   TROOP         269 

question  till  this  morning,  had  no  right  to  make  this 
statement  in  a  full  round  voice  of  certainty.  Yet  he 
knew  every  man  in  the  company,  and  he  felt  in 
himself  the  force  to  answer  for  them.  He  an 
swered  for  them  without  a  hesitation.  And  with 
that  Francois'  laughing  face  grew  grave.  He  pushed 
the  letters  from  him  and  got  up  and  came  across 
to  the  boy  and  bent  and  put  his  arm  around  his 
shoulder  as  he  sat  still  and  stiff.  These  French  ways 
of  his  friend  pleased  Harry  immensely,  but  they 
also  petrified  him  with  embarrassment.  Franqois 
was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed.  He  patted  the 
broad  young  shoulder  affectionately. 

"My  good  Henry,"  he  said  gently.  "What  a 
loyal  heart — and  what  a  reckless  one!  How  then 
can  you  answer  for  all  these  messieurs?" 

Harry  flung  up  his  head  and  began.  "They  will 
— if  they  do  not  I  shall  make  them" — 'but  Frangois 
stopped  the  bold  words. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly — yet  with  a  tone  of  finality 
which  the  other  recognized.  "That  will  not  be  nec 
essary.  And  the  messieurs  are  my  good  friends; 
they  will  treat  me  with  honor;  they  will  be  better 
to  me  than  I  deserve.  I  know  that  well."  There 
were  so  few  people  in  the  world  who  did  not,  to 
Francois,  seem  his  good  friends.  "But,  my  Henry, 


270  THE    MARSHAL 

I  will  not  be  the  captain.  I  have  thought  of  that, 
if  you  have  not.  Look  here." 

He  swung  to  the  desk  and  slipped  out  a  drawer, 
and  had  a  long  folded  paper  in  his  hands.  He 
flapped  it  open  -before  Harry's  eyes.  It  was  a  formal 
notice  to  Mr.  Henry  Hampton,  junior,  that  the  Jef 
ferson  Troop  of  Virginia  had  elected  him  as  its  cap 
tain. 

Harry  flushed  violently  and  his  mouth  quivered 
with  pleasure,  with  nervousness,  with  unhappiness. 
The  other  watched  him  eagerly.  All  this  affair  of 
the  troop  he  had  done  to  give  pleasure  to  Harry 
Hampton,  his  friend.  It  was  the  only  way  in  which 
the  lame  boy  could  be  on  equal  terms  with  the  other 
boys,  and  Francois  had  determined  from  the  first 
that  every  joy  which  could  be  gleaned  out  of  it  he 
should  have.  To  be  the  captain  ought  to  be  a  joy. 

"I!"  Harry  cried  and  then  was  silent — and  then 
spoke  sorrowfully.  "But — it  can  not  be !" 

"Can  not  be?"  demanded  Franqois.    "Why  not?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  with  a  painful 
effort  the  words  came.  "My — misfortune.  I  am 
lame." 

And  Frangois  cried  out,  "Henry — all  that  is  non 
sense!  What  of  it?  It  is  a  thing  you  do  as  well 
as  the  best — riding.  Who  has  such  a  seat,  such 


CAPTAIN    OF    THE   TROOP         271 

hands  as  you?  Why  not  then,  I  demand?"  And 
went  on.  "It  is  settled.  I  have  talked  to  them  all 
— see  the  signatures.  You  are  the  captain,  my 
Henry — and  I  am  your  right  hand  and  your  left 
hand — yes  and  your  feet,  too,  whenever  you  need 
me." 

"But,"  said  Harry,  dazed,  "it  is  really  your  place; 
don't  you  want  to  be  captain?"  he  shot  at  the  other 
boyishly. 

And  with  that  Francois'  arm  was  about  his 
shoulder  again  as  the  two  stood  together,  and  Fran- 
qois  was  laughing.  "But  yes,"  he  said.  "I  should 
like  it.  That  is  a  secret."  His  face  was  brilliant 
with  laughter.  "You  only  may  know,  my  Henry, 
that  I  am  vain — ah,  very  vain,"  he  repeated  sadly. 
"Never  tell  it.  I  love  titles  and  honors  and  impor 
tance.  I  like  to  be  called  Chevalier — though  indeed 
that  is  my  right,"  he  added  with  a  quick  touch  of 
dignity.  "And  I  should  like  very  much  to  be  cap 
tain  of  this  company  of  fine  young  men,  the  flowers 
• — does  one  say? — of  the  South.  But  it  is  not  best." 
He  held  up  his  forefinger  and  looked  enormously 
worldly-wise.  "No.  You  would  not  mind;  the 
young  messieurs  would  not  mind,  perhaps — but  the 
fathers — ah,  the  fathers !"  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  gazed  at  the  ceiling  with  eyes  of  horror.  Then 


272  THE    MARSHAL 

with  a  start  and  a  hand  flung  out,  "And  the  moth 
ers!  Man  Dieu!  But  the  mothers,  Henry!  They 
would  make — what  you  call  it — a  hell  of  a  time,  is 
it  not?" 

Harry  roared  with  joy  at  the  terrified  whisper. 
"But  I  have  neither  father  nor  mother,"  he  sug 
gested. 

"Ah,  Henry,"  argued  Francois  with  deep  satis 
faction  in  his  tone,  "that  makes  you  so  suitable." 

"Suitable?"  inquired  Henry. 

"But  yes,  my  friend.  It  kills  jealousy.  All  is 
grist,  one  says,  that  comes  at  your  mill.  All  is 
fathers,  all  is  mothers  to  the  poor  orphan — and  be 
sides  that,  there  is  Monsieur  the  Colonel.  One  sees 
that  the  uncle  of  the  captain  will  be  contented.  And 
whom  should  I  wish  to  content  but  my  first  host, 
my  first  benefactor  in  this  land?  I  believe,  indeed, 
he  would  be  displeased  if  I  should  take  the  place. 
I  believe  he  is  not  satisfied  of  my  birth." 

And  beneath  the  nonsense  of  Francois,  Henry 
could  but  acknowledge  the  clear-sighted  logic.  So  it 
happened  that  Henry  Hampton  became  captain  of 
the  Jefferson  Troop,  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  all 
concerned. 

Yet  Colonel  Hampton,  who  had  the  unconquer 
able  clinging  of  a  weak  character  to  post-mortems, 


CAPTAIN    OF    THE    TROOP         273 

could  not  resist  harking  back  to  the  possibility  which 
had  offended  him.  He  did  not  like  to  cross  swords 
again  with  Harry  on  the  subject,  having  found  that 
young  person's  blade  heavy;  so  he  went  to  his 
daughter.  That  tiny  executive  person  with  a  basket 
of  big  keys,  which,  to  a  southern  housekeeper,  is 
more  than  a  badge,  came  out  on  the  shady  gallery 
where  the  colonel  sat  in  immaculate  linen,  for  the 
day  was  like  August,  and  sipped  a  mint-julep  made 
of  the  tender  leaves  of  a  second  growth  of  the  mint 
bed,  made  of  sugar  ground  with  mint,  of  ice  pow 
dered  fine  in  a  napkin,  of  Bourbon  whisky  poured  in 
to  the  top  of  all.  The  frost  on  the  silver  cup  stood 
like  a  snow-drift;  the  fresh  mint  spears  lifted  in 
stiff  ranks  above ;  it  was  a  beautiful  julep ;  one  would 
have  thought  the  colonel  could  not  be  querulous  with 
such  a  bouquet  in  his  hand.  But  the  colonel  was  al 
lowing  himself  to  be  irritated. 

"Young  Allen  Fitzhugh  has  just  been  here,"  he 
began,  and  his  daughter  knew  from  the  tone  that 
something  was  wrong. 

"Yes.  I  saw  him.  He  and  Harry  have  ridden 
to  Carnifax." 

"Those  lads  talk  great  nonsense,"  growled  the 
colonel. 

"Yes,"  Lucy  agreed.     "I  like  to  hear  them." 


274  THE    MARSHAL 

"I  don't."  With  that  the  colonel  brought  his  fist 
down  on  his  chair  arm,  and  joggled  the  beautiful 
julep  and  spilled  some  of  it  on  his  white  linen  trous 
ers.  Lucy  laughed.  The  colonel's  temper  was  not 
improved. 

"Pernicious  nonsense  they  talk.  About  this  ab 
surd  young  Chevalier,  as  they  call  him — though 
where  he  got  his  title  I  can  not  guess." 

"What  about  the  Chevalier?"  Lucy's  blue  eyes 
were  serious. 

"Oh,  about  his  virtues  and  his  charms,"  the 
colonel  grumbled  vaguely.  "And  about  his  undoubt 
ed  right  to  have  been  captain  of  the  troop,  and  his 
fine  spirit  in  refusing.  A  pest!  As  if  he  dared 
accept!  As  if  we  Virginians  would  see  a  common 
peasant  set  over  our  children." 

There  was  a  complete  silence  on  the  broad  shady 
gallery  for  a  moment.  The  breeze  rustled  in  the 
live-oak  trees  and  went  on  beyond  as  if  light-footed 
ladies  in  silk  petticoats  had  slipped  past.  Out  at  the 
cabins  one  heard  two  negro  women  singing  in  rich 
voices : 

"Nellie  was  a  lady — 
Last  night  she  died." 

The  women  sang  far  away.  Bees  hummed  in  the 
garden.  The  colonel  sipped  at  his  mint-julep. 


CAPTAIN    OF   THE   TROOP         275 

Then  Lucy's  soft  falling  voice  spoke  very  clearly. 
"I  think  the  boys  are  right,  father.  I  agree  with 
them  that  the  Chevalier  showed  a  fine  spirit." 

The  colonel  turned  angrily.  "You  don't  under 
stand  what  you  are  talking  about,"  he  shot  at  her 
peevishly.  "I  am  astonished  at  you,  Lucy!  You 
— a  lady — a  Hampton,  to  encourage  this  man  of 
low  birth  who  has  worked  his  way  into  our  society!" 

But  Lucy  answered  him  quite  easily,  quite  firmly. 
"You  know  you  don't  believe  that,  father.  You 
know  he  has  not  'worked  his  way'  among  us,  but 
that  everybody  has  been  delighted  to  welcome  him 
in.  Why,  you  like  him,  father — you  are  as  friendly 
to  him  as  any  one  when  he  comes  here." 

The  colonel  looked  worried.  "Oh — friendly — of 
course.  In  my  own  house.  And  besides,  society 
has  accepted  him;  he  is  a  manner  of  celebrity;  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  thought  bearish.  But  it  is  a  dan 
gerous  precedent.  I  do  not  like  it.  The  next  thing 
the  fellow  might  wish  to  marry  one  of  our  southern 
ladies!" 

Once  again  one  heard  the  bees  hum,  and  the  col 
ored  women  singing,  and  the  breeze  in  the  trees,  and 
then  Lucy's  low  decided  voice  spoke  clearly.  "I 
think  it  would  be  a  very  fortunate  woman  whom 
the  Chevalier  might  wish  to  marry,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HERO    WORSHIP 

IT  had  come  about  that  Lucy  Hampton  was  a 
scholar  of  Frangois.  The  colonel,  lamenting  on 
a  day  that  there  were  no  capable  teachers  of  French 
in  the  neighborhood,  that  Lucy's  schoolgirl  com 
mand  of  the  language  was  fast  disappearing,  and 
an  accomplishment  so  vital  to  a  lady  was  likely  soon 
to  be  lost — this  saga  of  regret  being  sung  by  the 
colonel  at  the  dinner-table,  Fran9ois  had  offered  to 
teach  mademoiselle  his  mother  tongue.  And  the 
colonel  had  accepted  the  offer. 

"If  you  are  not  too  busy,  Chevalier.  And  I  sup 
pose  your — ah — accent — is  entirely  good?  One 
can  not  be  too  careful,  you  know.  At  least  we  shall 
not  quarrel  about  the  terms,  for  whatever  money 
you  think  right  to  ask  I  shall  be  ready  to  pay," 
and  the  colonel  felt  himself  a  man  of  the  world 
and  extremely  generous. 

"Father !"  Lucy  cried  quickly. 

Francois'  eyes  were  on  his  plate  but  they  swept 
276 


HERO    WORSHIP  277 

up  with  their  wide  brown  gaze  full  on  the  colonel's 
face.  "I  am  not  too  busy,  Monsieur  the  Colonel. 
As  for  my  accent — I  am  a  peasant,  as  Monsieur 
knows,  but  yet  I  am  instructed.  I  was  for  years 
at  Saint-Cyr,  the  great  military  school  of  France. 
I  believe  my  accent  is  right.  As  for  money" — a 
quick  motion,  all  French,  spoke  a  whole  sentence. 
"If  Monsieur  insists  on  that — that  must  finish  it. 
To  me  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  money  for 
the  pleasure  of  teaching  mademoiselle."  He  flashed 
at  Lucy  a  smile  all  gentleness,  and  Lucy's  eyes, 
waiting  for  that  smile,  met  his  shyly. 

The  colonel  blustered  a  bit,  but  the  lessons  were 
arranged  as  FranQois  wished,  and  twice  a  week 
throughout  the  winter  he  rode  over  from  Carnifax 
to  give  them.  And  little  by  little  he  came  to  know 
the  small  mistress  of  the  manor  as  few  had  known 
her.  People  thought  Lucy  Hampton  too  serious  and 
staid  for  a  young  girl;  no  one  realized  that,  her 
mother  being  dead  and  her  father  such  as  he  was, 
the  clear-headed  little  person  had  begun  at  ten  or 
twelve  years  old  to  know  that  she  must  make  her 
own  decisions,  and  many  of  her  father's  also.  At 
fourteen  she  had  taken  the  keys  and  the  responsibil 
ity  of  the  house,  and  now,  at  sixteen,  she  was  in  real 
ity  the  head  of  the  whole  great  plantation.  The 


278  THE    MARSHAL 

colonel,  who  would  have  been  most  indignant  to  be 
told  so,  leaned  on  her  in  every  detail,  and  it  was  she 
who  planned  and  decided  and  often  executed  the 
government  of  the  little  kingdom. 

Those  who  think  of  southern  ladies  of  the  old 
regime  as  idle  do  not  understand  what  their  life 
was.  The  position  of  mayor  of  a  city  would  ap 
proach  idleness  as  nearly.  It  was  for  the  woman  at 
the  head  of  such  a  place  to  guide  the  household 
work  of  a  great  number  of  servants;  to  train  new 
servants  as  they  were  added  to  the  corps;  to  man 
age  the  commissariat  for  all  this  army;  to  see  that 
the  fruits  of  one  season  were  cooked  and  made  into 
the  sweets  and  pickles  and  drinks  of  another;  to 
look  after  the  clothing  of  hundreds  of  negroes  on 
the  plantation,  cutting  and  arranging  with  her  own 
hands.  Beyond  this,  to  the  mind  of  a  conscien 
tious  southern  woman,  such  as  was  young  Lucy 
Hampton,  the  souls  of  her  slaves  were  her  charge 
as  well  as  their  bodies.  As  she  stood  slim  and  fair 
and  young,  in  the  great,  shadowy,  sunshot  hall  of 
Roanoke  House,  and  read  and  explained  the  Bible 
or  led  the  singing,  while  all  the  earnest,  reverent, 
black  faces  turned  to  her  trustingly,  it  was  a  great 
power  to  be  given  into  such  hands,  and  she  felt 
it  so.  In  addition  to  all  this  a  lady  of  Virginia  must 


HERO    WORSHIP  279 

entertain  and  go  into  society  and  be  a  grandc  dame 
as  well  as,  if  it  so  happened,  a  devoted  wife  and 
mother. 

All  this,  except  the  last,  lay  on  the  slender  shoul 
ders  of  Lucy  Hampton,  and  besides  all  this  she  had 
begun  in  very  childhood  to  hold  up  the  hands  and 
do  the  thinking  of  an  incompetent  father.  It  was 
not  wonderful  that  she  was  graver  and  slower  to 
frolic  than  other  girls  of  sixteen.  Her  conscientious 
young  brain  was  full  of  care,  and  light-heartedness 
of  youth  had  never  had  a  chance  to  grow  in  that 
crowded  place.  Her  cousin  had  come  to  live  with 
them  only  the  year  before,  when  his  mother  had 
died,  his  father  being  dead  long  ago;  and  Lucy 
knew  quite  well  that  her  father  had  planned  that 
the  two  should  marry  and  unite  the  broad  acres  of 
the  Hamptons. 

But  the  young  longing  for  romance  which  was  in 
her  in  spite  of  the  choking  sober  business  of  her 
life,  rebelled  at  this.  She  would  not  give  herself 
as  well  as  all  her  thought  and  effort  for  Roanoke. 
She  wanted  to  love  somebody,  and  be  loved  for  her 
self  as  other  girls  were;  she  would  not  marry  Harry 
because  he  and  her  father  considered  it  a  good  ar 
rangement.  So  strongly  had  this  determination 
seized  her  that,  looking  entirely  down  that  way  of 


28o  THE    MARSHAL 

thought,  she  failed  to  see  that  Harry  might  not  be 
classed  with  the  colonel  in  his  view  of  the  plan.  She 
failed  to  see  that  if  she  had  not  been  heiress  to  Roan- 
oke  House,  or  to  anything  at  all,  Harry  Hampton 
would  still  have  been  in  love  with  his  cousin  Lucy. 
For  Harry  saw  how  the  young  life  had  been  pressed 
into  a  service  too  hard  for  it  almost  from  babyhood ; 
Harry  saw  how  unselfish  she  was  and  trustworthy; 
how  broad-minded  and  warm-hearted;  how  she 
would  like  to  be  care  free  and  irresponsible  like 
other  girls  of  her  age,  only  that  the  colonel  and  the 
estate  were  always  there,  always  demanding  her 
time  and  her  attention.  He  could  do  little  to  help 
her  as  yet,  but  he  longed  to  lift  the  weight  and  carry 
it  with  her,  not  away  from  her,  for  the  fairy  of 
a  person  was  not  the  sort  to  lean  on  others  or  to  be 
happy  without  her  share  of  the  burden.  Yet,  Harry 
thought,  "If  I  might  only  help  her,  and  make  it 
all  a  delight  instead  of  a  labor !" 

But  Lucy,  going  about  her  busy  days,  never 
guessed  this.  She  thought  of  Harry  as  the  boy  whom 
she  had  grown  up  with,  to  be  cared  for  tenderly 
always  because  of  his  misfortune,  to  be  helped  and 
planned  for  and  loved  indeed,  because  he  was  lame 
and  her  cousin,  and  because  he  was  a  dear  boy  and 
her  best  friend.  But  as  the  hero  of  her  own  romance 


HERO    WORSHIP  281 

to  come,  she  refused  to  think  of  him  at  all.  More 
firmly  she  refused  such  an  idea,  of  course,  because 
her  father  had  hinted  that  it  would  complete  both 
Harry's  and  his  happiness.  She  had  laughed  at 
Harry  openly  about  the  scheme  more  than  once, 
and  he  had  flushed  and  kept  silent  and  Lucy  had 
thought : 

"Poor  old  honest  Harry!  He  has  been  brow 
beaten  by  my  father,  but  he  will  not  lie  to  me, 
the  good  lad." 

Frangois,  with  quick  insight,  saw  as  much  as  this, 
and  was  anxious  for  the  boy  who  had  been  his  warm 
and  steady  friend.  What  he  did  not  see  was  that 
Lucy  was  fitting  his  own  personality  into  that  empty 
notch  of  her  imagination  where  an  altar  stood  and 
a  candle  burned,  ready  for  the  image  that  was  to 
come  above  them.  That  never  entered  his  mind, 
for  in  his  mind  Alixe  was  the  only  woman  living 
to  be  considered  in  such  a  relation.  And,  in  spite  of 
the  seigneur,  in  spite  of  Pietro,  in  spite  of  his  whole 
hearted  giving  up  of  her,  there  was  a  happy  obstin 
ate  corner  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  which  yet 
whispered  against  all  reason  that  it  might  be  that 
Alixe  loved  him,  that  it  might  be,  for  unheard-of 
things  happened  every  day,  it  might  be  yet  that — • 
with  all  honor,  with  all  happiness  to  those  others 


282  THE    MARSHAL 

whom  he  loved — he  might  some  day  be  free  to  love 
her.  He  knew  it  to  be  impossible,  yet  ever  in  his 
being,  like  a  stream  singing  underground  in  a  for 
est,  the  unphrased  thought  lived  always.  So  that 
as  he  grew  to  care  for  and  understand  Lucy  Hamp 
ton  more  and  more,  no  faintest  dream  of  caring 
for  her  as  he  did  for  Alixe  came  ever  into  his  mind. 
The  situation,  given  this  most  winning  and  lovable 
young  man,  filled  with  warm  gratitude  and  admira 
tion,  given  two  opportunities  a  week  all  winter  for 
unconscious  molding  of  the  plastic  material  of  little 
Lucy's  affections — given  these  things,  the  situation 
for  Lucy  was  unsafe. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A    LESSON    IN    FRENCH 

ON  an  evening  when  winter  was  wearing  away 
to  cold  spring,  Franqois  waited  in  the  dining- 
room  of  Roanoke  House  for  his  scholar.  It  was 
very  still  in  the  large  house.  The  sharp  wind  of  a 
March  in  Virginia  whistled  through  the  bare 
branches  of  trees  in  the  park  outside.  Inside,  the 
crackling  of  a  fire  of  piled  hickory  logs  tempered 
with  its  careless  naturalness  the  formality  of  the 
fine  old  room.  The  room  had  a  sweet  and  stately 
beauty,  a  graceful  stiffness  like  the  manners  of  the 
women  who  first  lived  in  it,  a  hundred  years  before. 
The  carved  white  woodwork  over  the  doors  was 
yellowed  to  ivory;  the  mantelpiece,  brought  from 
France  in  1732,  framed  in  its  fluted  pillars,  its  gar 
lands  and  chiseled  nymphs  and  shepherds,  as  if  un 
der  protest,  the  rollicking  orange  of  the  fire.  Over 
a  mahogany  sofa,  covered  with  slippery  horsehair, 
hung  a  portrait  of  the  first  lady  of  the  manor,  and 
Fra^ois,  sitting  soldierly  erect  in  a  straight  chair, 

283 


284  THE    MARSHAL 

smiled  as  his  gaze  fell  on  it — it  was  so  like  yet  so  un 
like  a  face  which  he  knew.  There  was  the  delicate 
oval  chin  and  straight  nose,  and  fair  loose  hair. 
But  the  portrait  was  staid  and  serious,  while  Lucy's 
face,  as  this  man  had  seen  it,  had  kindly  eyes  and  a 
mouth  smiling  always.  He  shook  his  head  in  gentle 
amusement  at  the  grave  dignity  of  the  picture. 

"But  no,  Madame — you  are  not  so  charming  as 
your  granddaughter,"  he  said,  addressing  it  aloud. 

And  then  he  stepped  across  the  room  to  the  fire, 
and  held  his  hands  to  it  and  stared  into  it.  The 
clock  ticked  firmly,  the  logs  fell  apart  with  soft 
sliding  sounds,  and  he  stared  down  at  them — his 
thoughts  far  away — a  look  came  into  his  eyes  as  if 
they  concentrated  on  something  beyond  the  range 
of  sight,  the  characteristic  look  of  Franqois,  the  old 
look  of  a  dreamer,  of  a  seer  of  visions. 

Then  Lucy  stood  in  the  doorway,  gentle,  charm 
ing  from  the  slippered  feet,  laced  over  the  instep,  to 
the  shadowy  locks  of  light  hair  on  her  forehead. 

"Good  evening,  Monsieur.  I  am  sorry  I  kept  you 
waiting.  Hannibal  hurt  his  foot  and  I  must  find 
plaster  and  bandage  for  him.  But  you  will  have 
enough  of  my  talking  even  now.  Father  says  I  talk 
a  great  deal.  Do  I,  Monsieur?" 

Francois  stood  regarding  her,  with  frank  admira- 


A   LESSON    IN    FRENCH  285 

tion  in  every  muscle  of  his  face.  He  smiled,  the 
same  gentle  amused  smile  with  which  he  had  ad 
dressed  the  portrait.  "You  never  talk  too  much  for 
me,  Mademoiselle.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  always  to 
hear  your  voice,"  he  answered  in  the  deep  tone  of  a 
Frenchman,  the  tone  that  has  ever  a  half  note  of 
tragedy,  as  of  some  race-memory  which  centuries 
do  not  wipe  out.  "Only,"  he  went  on  speaking  in 
French,  "one  must  not  talk  English.  That  is  break 
ing  the  law,  you  remember,  Mademoiselle." 

She  answered  very  prettily  in  his  own  tongue,  in 
words  that  halted  a  little.  "Very  well,  Monsieur. 
I  will  do  my  best."  He  still  gazed  at  her  smiling, 
without  speaking.  One  could  understand  that,  to  a 
girl  of  more  self-contained  people,  this  open  homage 
of  manner,  this  affectionate  gentleness,  might  seem 
to  mean  more  than  a  brotherly  loyalty.  The  girl's 
pulse  was  beating  fast  as  she  made  an  effort  for  con 
versation.  "What  were  you  thinking  of  as  you 
looked  at  the  fire  when  I  came  in,  Monsieur  ?  It  had 
an  air  of  being  something  pleasant.  Did  I  not  say 
all  that  beautifully?"  she  finished  in  English. 

He  corrected  a  lame  verb  with  serious  accuracy 
and  she  repeated  the  word,  and  laughed  happily. 
:     "But  you  haven't  said  yet  what  you  were  think 
ing  about." 


286  THE    MARSHAL 

The  large  brown  eyes  turned  on  hers.  "It  was  of 
my  old  home  in  France,  Mademoiselle,  when  I  was 
very  little,"  he  said  simply.  "A  large  fire  of  logs 
makes  me  think  of  that." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  begged  with  quick  inter 
est.  "Will  you?  Was  there  always  a  fire  at  your 
house  ?" 

"But  no,  Mademoiselle — not,  of  course,  in  the 
summer.  It  was  of  the  winter  time  I  thought,  when 
the  neighbors  came,  in  the  evening,  and  we  sat  about 
the  hearth,  sometimes  twenty  people,  each  at  his  dif 
ferent  duty,  and  my  brothers  and  sisters  were  there, 
and  the  dear  grand-mere  was  there  and — "  he 
stopped.  "Does  Mademoiselle  really  wish  to  hear 
how  it  was  in  that  old  farm-house  of  ours,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Jura  Mountains?" 

"Indeed,  Mademoiselle  wishes  it,"  she  assured 
him.  "It  will  be  a  trip  to  Europe.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
speak  better  French  for  going  to  France  for  ten  min 
utes,  and  being  among  the  French  people,  your 
friends.  Wait  now,  till  I  am  comfortable."  She 
turned  a  deep  chair  so  that  it  faced  him,  and 
dropped  into  it.  "Put  a  footstool  for  me,"  she  or 
dered,  as  southern  women  order  the  men  they  care 
for — and  the  men  they  do  not.  And  she  settled 
back  with  her  little  feet  on  it  and  smiled  at  him.  For 


A   LESSON    IN    FRENCH  287 

a  moment  the  man's  brilliant  gaze  rested  on  her  and 
the  girl  saw  it,  and  thrilled  to  it.  "Now,  Monsieur, 
racontez-uioi  unc  histoire,"  she  spoke  softly. 

Francois  Beaupre's  look  turned  from  her  to  the 
fire,  and  the  air  of  gazing  at  something  far  away 
came  again.  "It  is  a  picture  I  see  as1 1  think  of  that 
time  of  my  childhood,"  he  began,  as  if  speaking  to 
himself.  "A  picture  many  times  painted  in  home 
like  colors  on  my  brain.  Many  a  night  in  the  winter 
I  have  sat,  a  little  boy,  by  the  side  of  my  grand 
mother,  at  that  great  hearth,  and  have  looked  and 
have  seen  all  the  faces,  have  heard  all  the  voices  and 
the  fire  crackling,  and  the  spinning-wheel  whirring, 
even  as  I  see  them  and  hear  them  to-night.  I  was 
always  close  by  the  grand-mere,  for  I  was  the  dearest 
of  the  children  to  her.  Sometimes  long  after  my 
bedtime  I  sat  there,  but  very  quietly,  for  fear  that  my 
mother  might  remember  and  send  me  to  bed  ;  yet  she 
liked  to  please  the  grand-mere,  so  I  stayed  often 
longer  than  the  others.  It  was  a  great  room,  and 
across  one  corner  was  the  hearth  which  was  raised 
like  a  throne,  Mademoiselle,  from  the  floor,  twelve 
feet  wide.  One  burned  logs  six  feet  long  within  it, 
and  from  up  the  chimney  swung  the  crcmatilcrc — 
the  chains  from  which  were  hung  the  kettles.  It 
was  the  house  of  a  peasant,  Mademoiselle  knows,  yet 


288  THE   MARSHAL 

it  was  the  best  house  in  the  village.  Often,  of  a 
November  night,  the  neighbors  would  come  in,  per 
haps  a  dozen,  perhaps  more,  and  the  young  men  had 
their  work — they  arranged  the  flax  for  spinning,  it 
might  be, — and  the  young  girls  prepared  apples  to 
dry,  and  the  mothers'  knitting  needles  flashed  back 
and  forth  on  the  stockings  for  our  winter  wear,  and 
the  grand-mere  would  be  spinning  linen  threads  for 
our  clothing — whirr,  whirr — I  can  hear  the  low 
sound  of  her  wheel.  And  always  I,  Francois,  would 
be  on  the  stool  at  her  side,  watching  and  listening. 
For  my  father  was  a  great  raconteur,  and  he  told 
stories  of  the  war  and  of  the  legends  of  that  country. 
It  was  an  ancient  country  you  must  know,  Mademoi 
selle,  and  the  name  of  our  village  itself  was  from  the 
Romans.  Vieques  was  the  name,  and  that  as  you 
know,  Mademoiselle,  comes  from  the  Latin  word 
vicus,  a  village.  So  that  there  were  old  castles  in 
ruin  in  those  parts  and  tales  of  buried  treasure,  and 
ghosts  in  armor  guarding  it,  and  great  dogs  that 
breathed  flame,  and  other  things  pleasantly  horrible 
to  the  ear  of  a  little  boy.  On  the  cold  nights,  as  the 
fire  roared  up  the  chimney  and  the  grandmother's 
wheel  whirred  softly,  my  father  and  the  other  men 
told  these  tales,  and  I  listened,  quiet  as  a  mouse  in 
my  corner,  and  from  time  to  time  I  saw  a  young 


A   LESSON    IN    FRENCH  289 

man  lean  over  and  whisper  in  the  ear  of  one  of  the 
young  girls,  and  I  wondered  why  her  face  became 
red  as  the  firelight. 

"And  from  time  to  time  one  of  the  men,  as  he 
talked,  rose  up  and  strode  across  the  room  to  the 
great  oak  table  where  lay  always  on  a  wooden  plate 
a  long  loaf  of  black  bread,  with  a  knife,  and  always 
a  glass  and  a  bottle  of  eau-de-vie — brandy.  And  I 
remember  how  manly  it  looked  to  me,  watching, 
when  I  saw  him  take  the  loaf  under  his  arm  and 
hold  it,  and  slice  off  boldly  a  great  piece  of  the  fresh 
rye  bread,  and  pour  out  a  glass  of  brandy  and  toss  it 
off  as  he  ate  the  bread.  The  stories  seemed  to  grow 
better  after  the  teller  had  done  that. 

"And  always  I  waited,  even  through  the  tale  of 
the  ghost  and  the  fire-breathing  hound,  till  the  talk 
should  swing  round,  as  it  did  ever  toward  the  end, 
to  the  stories  of  Napoleon  that  were  fresh  in  men's 
minds  in  those  days.  It  was  as  if  I  sat  on  needles 
before  my  bedtime  came,  yet  I  did  not  dare  to  be 
restless  and  move  about  for  fear  that  my  mother 
might  send  me  suddenly  to  bed.  But  I  always  gave 
a  sigh  of  content  and  always  the  grand-mere  patted 
my  head  softly  to  hear  it,  when  my  father  cleared 
his  throat  and  began — 

"  There  is  a  small  thing  that  happened  when  the 


290  THE    MARSHAL 

Emperor  was  marching' — and  then  he  was  launched 
on  his  tale." 

A  great  hickory  log  fell,  rolled  out  toward  the 
hearth.  The  carved  nymphs  and  shepherds  seemed 
to  frown  in  disapproval  at  this  irregularity,  and  the 
girl  in  the  deep  chair  smiled,  but  the  man  sprang  up 
and  put  the  log  back  in  place  with  quick  efficiency. 
He  stood  silent  by  the  tall  mantelpiece,  deep  yet  in 
his  reverie,  as  the  flames  caught  the  wood  again  and 
sparkled  and  sputtered. 

"Did  any  of  them  ever  see  Napoleon — those  men 
who  talked  about  him?"  the  girl  asked. 

The  Frenchman  turned  a  queer  look  on  her,  and 
did  not  answer. 

"Did  any  of  your  family  ever  see  him,  Mon 
sieur?"  she  asked  again. 

The  alert  figure  stepped  backward,  sat  down 
again  on  the  gilded  chair  and  leaned  forward  con 
sideringly.  Frangois  nodded  as  if  to  the  fire.  "But 
yes,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  tell  me !"  the  girl  cried,  all  interest.  "Who 
was  it?  How  was  it?  It  couldn't  be" — she  hesi 
tated — "yourself!  If  you,  whom  I  know  so  well, 
should  have  seen  the  Emperor!"  She  caught  a  deep 
breath  of  excitement.  This  was  another  Lucy 
Hampton  from  the  serious  young  mistress  of  Roan- 


A   LESSON    IN    FRENCH  291 

oke  House  whom  the  country  people  knew.  "Quick 
ly,  Monsieur,  tell  me  if  it  was  yourself!" 

Franqois  turned  his  eyes  on  her.  "Yes,  Mad 
emoiselle,"  he  answered. 

A  log  slipped  and  slid  and  the  sparks  caught  a 
new  surface  and  flew  aloft  in  a  crackling  uproar; 
the  elfish  light  showered  brilliancy  on  the  girl's  fair 
hair  as  she  bent  forward  with  her  white  teeth  gleam 
ing,  her  blue  eyes  shining,  stirred  with  the  dramatic 
air  of  the  Frenchman.  With  a  catch  of  her  breath — 

"You  have  seen  Napoleon!"  she  said,  and  then, 
impetuously,  "Tell  me  about  it !"  But,  though  he 
smiled  at  her  with  that  affectionate  amusement 
which  she  seemed,  of  all  sentiments,  oftenest  to  in 
spire  in  him,  he  did  not  answer. 

"Monsieur!  you  will  not  refuse  to  tell  me  when 
I  want  to  know  so  much !"  she  pleaded,  and  went  on. 
"How  old  were  you  ?  Did  he  speak  to  you  ?  What 
did  he  say  to  you?" 

And  the  Frenchman  laughed  as  if  at  a  dear  child 
who  was  absurd.  "Mademoiselle  asks  many  ques 
tions — which  shall  I  answer?"  he  demanded,  and  the 
tone  to  her  ear  was  the  tone  of  love,  and  she  trem 
bled  to  hear  it. 

"Answer" — she  began,  and  stammered  and 
flushed,  and  stopped. 


292  THE    MARSHAL 

Frangois  went  on,  little  thinking  what  damage  he 
was  doing  with  that  unconscious  charm  of  voice  and 
look. 

"It  is  as  Mademoiselle  wishes,  most  certainly.  I 
will  even  answer  Mademoiselle's  two  questions  at 
once  to  please  her.  It  was  when  I  was  not  quite  three 
years  old,  Mademoiselle,  at  home  in  the  farm-house 
in  the  valley  of  the  Jura." 

"And  he  spoke  to  you,  to  your  own  self?  Are 
you  sure?" 

"But  yes,  he  spoke  to  me,  Mademoiselle." 

"What  did  he  say  ?"  The  smile  on  Francois'  face 
went  out  and  into  its  place  swept  an  intensity  of 
feeling;  he  answered  solemnly:  "There  were  but 
few  words,  Mademoiselle,  but  they  Have  been  much 
to  my  life.  They  shall  lead  my  life,  if  God  pleases, 
those  words  shall  lead  it  to  the  fate  which  they  fore 
told." 

"What  were  the  words?"  whispered  the  girl,  im 
pressed  with  awe. 

Frangois  suddenly  stood  erect  and  stretched  out 
his  arm  as  if  to  hold  a  sword.  "  'Rise  Chevalier 
Francois  Beaupre,  one  day  a  Marshal  of  France  un 
der  another  Napoleon,' "  he  repeated  dramatically. 
"Those  were  the  words  the  Emperor  said." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  STORY  AGAIN 

THE  girl,  her  face  lifted  to  him,  looked  bewil 
dered.  "I  don't  understand." 

The  visionary  eyes  stared  at  her  uncertainly.  "I 
have  never  told  this  thing,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Ah — but  it's  only  me,"  begged  the  girl. 

"Only  you,  Mademoiselle!"  His  voice  went  on 
as  if  reflecting  aloud.  "It  is  the  guiding  star  of  my 
life — that  story;  yet  I  may  tell  it" — he  paused — "to 
'only  you'." 

Again  the  girl  quivered,  feeling  the  intensity,  mis 
taking  its  meaning.  "I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
tell  it,"  she  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  but  Francois, 
floating  backward  on  a  strong  tide  to  those  old  be 
loved  days,  did  not  notice. 

In  his  mind  was  the  memory  of  the  great  entry  of 
the  farm-house,  and  the  children  crowding  about  the 
grandmother,  and  the  gentle  old  voice,  now  gone 
into  silence,  which  had  told  the  tale.  The  sunshine 
lay  in  patches  on  the  floor,  the  breeze  tossed  the  red 

293 


294  THE    MARSHAL 

and  yellow  tulips  in  the  garden,  and  through  the  open 
door  he  saw  his  mother  move  about  the  kitchen  get 
ting  dinner  ready  before  the  father  should  come  in 
from  the  fields.  All  the  early  life,  long  dissolved 
in  the  past,  materialized  before  him,  and  his  heart 
ached  with  a  longing  to  speak  of  them,  to  relieve 
thus  the  pressure  of  the  crowding  thoughts  of  home. 
"It  may  seem  a  simple  affair  to  you,  Mademoiselle 
— I  can  not  tell  that.  It  has  affected  my  life.  The 
way  of  it  was  this :  Napoleon  marched  to  Germany 
in  the  year  1813,  and  passed  with  his  staff  through 
our  village.  The  house  of  my  father  was  the  largest 
in  the  village,  and  it  was  chosen  to  be,  for  an  hour, 
the  Emperor's  headquarters,  and  the  Emperor  held 
a  council  of  war,  he  and  his  generals,  there.  I,  a 
child  of  three,  was  sleeping  in  a  room  which  opened 
from  the  great  room,  and  I  wakened  with  the  sound 
of  voices,  and  ran  in,  unnoticed,  for  they  were  all 
bent  over  the  table,  looking  at  the  maps  and  lists  of 
the  mayor — and  I  pulled  at  the  sword  of  Marshal 
Ney.  And  the  marshal,  turning  quickly,  knocked 
me  over.  I  cried  out,  and  my  grandmother  ran  to 
me,  and  I  have  often  heard  her  tell  how  she  peeped 
from  the  door  under  the  shoulder  of  the  big  sentry 
who  would  not  let  her  pass,  and  how  she  saw  a 
young  general  pick  me  up  and  set  me  on  my  feet, 


THE    STORY    AGAIN  295 

and  how  all  the  great  officers  laughed  when  he  said 
that  the  sword  was  in  contest  between  Marshal  Ney 
and  me.  And  how,  then,  the  young  general  sug 
gested  that,  to  settle  the  point  amicably,  the  marshal 
should  draw  his  sword,  and  give  me  the  accolade — 
the  blow  of  knighting.  And  so,  Mademoiselle,  to 
shorten  the  tale,  it  was  not  the  marshal,  but  the  Em 
peror  himself  who  chose  to  do  it.  He  made  me 
kneel  before  him,  I — a  baby — and  he  struck  my 
shoulder  the  blow  of  the  accolade,  and  said  the 
words  which  I  have  told  you." 

Francois  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  as  he  re 
peated  once  more  the  Emperor's  words.  His  voice 
shook. 

"  'Rise  Chevalier  Francois  Beaupre,  one  day  a 
Marshal  of  France  under  another  Bonaparte,'  "  he 
cried,  thrilled  through  with  the  words  which  he  re 
peated. 

The  girl  leaning  forward,  watched  him;  with  a 
gasp  she  spoke.  "Then — that  is  why  you  are  really 
Chevalier  Beaupre  ?  Did  the  Emperor  have  the  right 
to — to  knight  you?" 

"But  yes,  Mademoiselle,"  Francois  answered 
with  decision.  "I  have  studied  the  question,  and  I 
believe  that  the  accolade — the  knighting — was  al 
ways  a  right  of  the  monarchs  of  France,  disused, 


296  THE    MARSHAL 

perhaps  at  times,  but  yet  held  in  abeyance,  a  right. 
My  family  did  not  agree  with  me.  My  father,  who 
was  very  practical,  thought  that  it  was  a  mere  joke 
of  the  Emperor's — or  if  not  a  joke,  then  a  caprice 
which  carried  no  weight.  But  the  seigneur — the 
General  Gourgaud,  who  was  one  of  Napoleon's  of 
ficers,  and  others,  Mademoiselle,  believe  as  I  do. 
And  to  my  mind  it  is  impossible  that  the  Emperor's 
word  should  carry  no  weight.  There  has  never 
lived  on  earth  a  man  of  so  enormous  a  force,  and 
even  the  smallest  acts  of  his  were  history.  If  the 
Emperor  ordained,  then,  that  a  little  child  of  the 
people,  a  peasant,  should  be  a  noble — why,  it  was 
well  within  his  power — it  was  done.  And  I  am  that 
child." 

The  glance  of  his  brilliant  eyes  met  hers  with  a 
frank  calmness  which  showed  that  he  claimed  noth 
ing  which  he  did  not  feel;  that  this  haphazard  no 
bility  had  lived  in  his  soul  and  grown  with  his 
growth,  and  come  to  be  part  of  him.  With  a  gen 
tle  humility,  very  winning  as  it  sprang  from  his  gen 
tle  pride,  he  went  on. 

"I  know,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  am  a  peasant  and 
that  I  must  be  content  with  a  small  place  in  life  at 
the  present.  I  know  this.  And  even  that  position 
which  I  have  is  more  than  my  brothers.  For  you 


THE    STORY    AGAIN  297 

must  know,  Mademoiselle,  that  the  others  grew  up 
to  be  farmers  or  tradesmen."  He  hesitated,  and 
then  in  a  few  words  told  her  of  General  Gourgaud, 
the  seigneur  of  Vieques,  and  how  he  had  given  the 
peasant  boy  all  the  opportunities  which  his  own  son 
could  have  had.  And  as  he  talked  he  remembered 
how,  after  his  father's  ruin,  he  had  stood  inside  the 
bare,  little,  new  cottage  and  watched  through  the 
window  his  mother  standing  at  the  gate  and  talking 
to  the  seigneur,  who  held  Lisette's  bridle.  It  seemed 
to  him  he  could  see  the  dark  braided  hair  of  La 
Claire,  coiled  around  her  head,  and  the  deep  point  of 
her  white  neck-handkerchief,  as  she  stood  with  her 
back  to  him,  and  the  big  bow  of  the  apron  tied  about 
her  waist.  The  picture  came  vividly.  And  it  op 
ened  his  heart  so  that  he  talked  on,  and  told  this 
stranger  in  a  strange  land  many  things  that  had  lain 
close  and  silent  in  his  heart.  He  told  her  about  the 
general's  gruffness,  which  could  not  hide  his  good 
ness;  and  how  he  had  come  to  be  the  child  of  the 
castle  as  well  as  of  the  cottage;  something  of  Pietro 
also  he  told  her;  but  he  did  not  mention  Alixe. 

"You  spoke  of  three  children,  Monsieur;  who  was 
the  third  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

Francois  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  ques 
tion.  "It  was  a  happy  life,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said. 


298  THE  MARSHAL 

"And  it  has  been  so  ever  since — even,  for  the  most 
part,  in  prison.  I  have  wondered  at  times  if  the 
world  is  all  filled  with  such  kind  people  as  I  have 
met,  or  if  it  is  just  my  good  luck." 

Lucy  Hampton  had  been  reading  aloud  to  her  sick 
black  mammy  that  day,  and  some  of  the  words  of 
the  book  she  had  read  came  to  her,  and  seemed  to 
fit.  "The  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you,"  she 
quoted  softly,  to  Francois.  Then  she  considered  a 
moment. 

"Monsieur,  would  it  be  impertinent  for  me  to  ask 
you  a  question — a  personal  question?" 

"I  think  not,  Mademoiselle,"  he  smiled  at  her. 

She  went  on,  hesitating  a  little.  "Father  was 
talking  of  how  Prince  Louis  Bonaparte  served,  a 
few  years  ago,  with  the  Italian  revolutionists.  I 
wondered  if — if  by  chance  you  had  fought  under 
him." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  had  not  that  happiness, 
Mademoiselle." 

"The  heir  of  the  Bonapartes  now  is  that  Prince 
Louis  Napoleon,  is  it  not  ?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"And  he  made  an  attempt  on  the  city  of  Stras- 
burg,  a  few  months  ago,  and  was  tried  for  it — and 
all  that — father  talked  about  it  so  much  I  could  not 


THE    STORY    AGAIN  299 

help  knowing  a  little  about  it,  but  I  don't  remember 
distinctly." 

"But  certainly,  Mademoiselle.   It  was  the  Prince." 

"Then,  haven't  they  just  done  something  to  him? 
Isn't  there  something  people  are  interested  in  just 
now  about  that  Prince  Louis?" 

The  grave  bright  smile  flashed  out  at  her.  "In 
truth,  Mademoiselle,  there  is.  The  Prince  was 
shipped  by  his  jailers  on  the  frigate  Andromede 
more  than  four  months  ago,  for  what  port  is  un 
known.  One  has  not  heard  of  him  lately,  and  there 
are  fears  that  he  may  have  suffered  shipwreck.  But 
I  do  not  fear.  It  is  the  hope  of  France,  it  is  France's 
destiny  which  the  Andromede  carries.  It  will  carry 
that  great  cargo  safely.  The  young  Prince  will  yet 
come  to  his  own,  and  I — and  perhaps  you,  Madem 
oiselle — who  knows? — will  ciy  for  him  'Vive  I'Em- 
pereur' !" 

The  tone  full  of  feeling  thrilled  through  the  girl. 
She  flushed  and  stammered  as  she  went  on,  but 
Franqois,  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  did  not 
think  of  it.  "If  you  will  let  me  ask  you  just  one 
question  more,  Monsieur,  I  will  promise  not  to  ask 
any  after." 

The  flicker  of  amusement  lighted  his  face.  "Ask 
me  a  thousand,  Mademoiselle." 


300  THE   MARSHAL 

"No,  only  one.  Did  that  seigneur — that  General 
Gourgaud — did  he  have  any — any  daughter?" 

The  Frenchman  rose  in  a  businesslike  way,  the 
way  of  a  teacher  of  language  at  the  end  of  a  lesson. 

"One,"  he  answered  briefly  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  And  then,  "Mademoiselle  has  talked  enchant- 
ingly  well  this  evening,  but  I  have  perhaps  talked  too 
much.  I  may  have  tired  Mademoiselle.  I  have  the 
honor  to  wish  you  a  good  evening." 

His  heels  together,  he  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
made  his  bow.  "Au  plaisir  de  vous  revoir,"  he  said, 
and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    PRINCE    COMES 

THE  glittering  morning  sunlight  of  late  March 
flooded  the  eastern  dining-room  of  Roanoke 
House.  As  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  outside 
moved  up  and  down  in  the  biting  breeze,  the  shad 
ows  danced  on  brown  blackness  of  wainscoted  walls, 
and  against  that  deep  background  Lucy  Hampton's 
gold  head  shone  as  Madonna  heads  shine  from  dim 
canvasses.  A  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth;  hot  dishes 
steamed  on  the  table;  the  girl's  face,  the  crackling 
fire,  the  polished  silver  reflected  from  polished  ma 
hogany;  the  soft  shod,  solicitous  service  of  a  white- 
aproned  negro ;  all  this  made  the  room  fragrant  with 
homeliness  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  one  could  see 
one's  breath  in  the  air.  But  they  were  used  to  it — 
the  hardy  Virginians  of  those  days  of  open  fires  and 
no  furnaces,  of  many  luxuries  and  few  comforts, 
and  in  happy  ignorance  of  world  progress,  they  suf 
fered  cheerfully  and  were  strong. 
Colonel  Henry  Hampton  faced  a  portrait  of  the 
301 


302  THE    MARSHAL 

first  Henry  Hampton  of  Roanoke,  stately  with  brass 
buttons  and  silver  lace,  set  in  the  panels  seventy-five 
years  before.  Lucy  had  concluded  her  broiled 
chicken  and  bacon  and  hot  bread,  and  now  as  he, 
late  for  breakfast  always,  followed  in  her  wake,  he 
read  the  Norfolk  and  Portsmouth  Herald  with 
which  a  colored  boy  had  that  morning  ridden  out 
from  Norfolk,  eight  miles  away.  It  was  before  the 
time  of  daily  papers,  except  in  a  large  city  or  two, 
and  this  of  once  a  week  was  an  event;  a  boy  was 
sent  into  Norfolk  the  day  before  its  publication  that 
the  colonel  might  have  it  at  the  earliest  moment. 

The  colonel's  heavy-dragoon  type  of  face  was 
handsome  and  weak;  a  bushy  mustache  jutted  from 
beneath  his  fine  nose,  as  if  in  an  effort  to  make  it 
soldierly  and  masculine.  The  features  were  mod 
eled  on  the  big-boned,  lean  features  of  men  who  had 
done  things ;  only  the  spirit  was  left  out.  It  was  as 
if  a  man  who  inherited  his  ancestor's  massive  silver 
platters  had  no  meat  to  put  on  them.  His  uncertain 
eyes,  under  their  splendid  brows,  wandered  from 
column  to  column  of  the  little  sheet,  leaving  this  and 
that  article  unfinished,  and  as  he  read  he  reported 
bits  of  news  to  his  daughter. 

"How  would  you  like  to  see  a  live  prince,  Lucy?" 
he  inquired.  "The  Herald  states  that  we  have  one 


THE    PRINCE    COMES  303 

with  us,  not  ten  miles  from  Roanoke.  Prince  Louis 
Napoleon  was  landed  from  the  Andromcdc,  in  Nor 
folk,  only  yesterday.  Poor  young  man,"  he  went 
on  condescendingly,  "he  has  no  money,  I  under 
stand,  and  here  he  is  stranded  in  a  strange  country 
with  his  fortune  to  make,  and  no  assets  but  a  title. 
It's  little  that  will  help  him  in  the  states !" 

Colonel  Hampton  glanced  over  to  see  if  she  were 
listening  to  his  words  of  wisdom;  he  liked  an  atten 
tive  audience.  He  was  enchanted  with  her  expres 
sion.  She  had  dropped  knife  and  fork  and,  with 
her  blue  eyes  stretched  wide,  her  white  teeth  shin 
ing,  was  drinking  in  his  sentences. 

"Father !  Is  Prince  Louis  in  Norfolk  ?  How  can 
it  be?  Monsieur  Beaupre  was  talking  to  me  about 
him  last  night,  and  he  did  not  dream  of  his  coming 
here.  Surely  he  would  have  known  if  the  Prince 
were  expected." 

Colonel  Hampton  smiled  sarcastically.  "You  will 
find  that  your  father  occasionally  knows  more  than 
even  Monsieur  Beaupre,  and  even  on  French  ques 
tions,  I  may  add,"  he  announced,  from  a  mountain 
height.  "But  in  one  point  you  are  right,  my  dear. 
The  Prince  was  not  expected  by  any  one,  not  even 
by  the  great  Chevalier  Beaupre.  He  was  exiled 
from  France,  as  you  may  or  may  not  know,  some 


304  THE    MARSHAL 

four  and  a  half  months  ago,  on  account  of  his  at 
tempt  on  Strasburg,  and  was  sent  out  on  the  Andro- 
mede,  with  sealed  orders.  No  one  knew  his  desti 
nation  until  he  landed,  on  the  twenty-eighth,  in  Nor 
folk.  There" — the  colonel  got  up  and  walked  to  the 
fireplace  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  blaze,  and 
his  legs  far  apart,  masterfully.  "There,  my  dear, 
I  have  given  you  a  dose  of  history  for  a  female  mind. 
How  are  you  going  to  amuse  your  little  self  to 
day?" 

The  female  mind  paid  no  attention  to  the  digres 
sion.  Lucy  had  long  ago,  finally  if  unconsciously, 
put  her  father's  personality  into  its  right  place. 

"Father,  is  the  Prince  really  poor  and  alone  in  this 
country?" 

"Poor — yes,  I  fancy — I  am  quite  certain,  in  fact. 
Alone — that  depends.  The  authorities  of  Norfolk 
received  him  with  some  distinction,  the  Herald 
states,  but  he  is  putting  up  at  the  inn — one  would 
;  conclude  that  he  was  not  an  invited  guest  at  many  of 
our  great  houses." 

Lucy  flew  like  a  bird  across  to  the  fireplace.  Her 
hands  went  up  to  either  side  of  the  colonel's  face. 
"Father,  quick!  Have  Thunder  saddled,  and  ride 
in — quick,  father — and  bring  the  Prince  out  here  to 
stay  with  us.  Give  the  order  to  Sambo,  or  I  shall." 


THE    PRINCE    COMES  305 

Colonel  Hampton's  eyes  widened  with  surprise. 
"Why,  but  Lucy,"  he  stammered.  "Why — but  why 
should  I  ?  What  claim  have  we — " 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  and  Lucy  shook  her  head  impa 
tiently.  "Who  has  more  claim?  Aren't  we  Vir 
ginians  of  the  James  River  princes  in  our  own  coun 
try,  too?  Hasn't  our  family  reigned  in  Roanoke 
longer  than  ever  his  reigned  in  Europe?  Haven't 
we  enough  house-room  and  servants  to  make  him  as 
comfortable  as  in  a  palace?  But  that  isn't  the  most 
important.  It  is  a  shame  to  us  all,  father,  that  no 
one  has  invited  him  before,  that  a  strange  gentleman 
of  high  station  should  have  to  lodge  at  an  inn.  Why 
hasn't  Cousin  George  Harrison  asked  him  to  Bran 
don  ?  And  the  Carters  at  Shirley,  and  the  people  at 
Berkeley — what  do  they  mean  by  not  asking  him? 
But  we  won't  let  Virginian  hospitality  be  stained. 
We  will  ask  him.  You  will  ride  to  Norfolk  at  once, 
will  you  not,  father  dear?" 

The  touch  on  his  cheek  was  pleasant  to  the  vain 
and  affectionate  man,  but  the  spirit  of  the  girl's 
speech,  the  suggestion  of  the  courtesy  due  from  him 
as  a  reigning  prince,  to  this  other  Prince  forlorn  and 
exiled,  this  was  pleasanter.  He  pursed  his  lips  and 
smiled  down. 

"Out  of  the  mouth  of  babes,"  he  remarked,  and 


306  THE    MARSHAL 

drew  his  brows  together  as  if  under  stress  of  large 
machinery  behind  them.  "My  little  girl,  you  have 
rather  a  sensible  idea.  I  had  overlooked  before, 
that" — he  cleared  his  throat  and  black  Aaron  stand 
ing  tray  in  hand  across  the  room,  jumped  and  rolled 
his  eyes — "that,"  he  continued,  "a  man  of  my  im 
portance  has  duties  of  hospitality,  even  to  a  for 
eigner  who  comes  without  introduction  into  the 
country." 

"Introduction — bother!"  remarked  the  daughter. 
"The  idea  of  a  nephew  of  the  Emperor  of  France 
needing" — she  stopped.  This  was  the  wrong  line 
of  argument.  "I  think  he  will  be  delighted  to  come 
to  Roanoke  House,"  she  went  on.  "It  is  so  beauti 
ful  even  in  winter,"  and  she  looked  proudly  about 
the  fine  room,  and  the  portraits  on  its  walls  looked 
back  at  her  proudly  too. 

"Many  distinguished  guests  have  been  delighted 
to  visit  Roanoke,"  Colonel  Hampton  answered  stiff 
ly.  "The  bankrupt  sprig  of  a  parvenu  royalty — " 

"Father — what  horrid  big  words!  I  haven't  any 
idea  what  they  mean,"  the  girl  interrupted,  "except 
that  you're  abusing  Prince  Louis,  who  is  probably 
having  a  bad  breakfast  in  that  stuffy  inn.  Go  along, 
father,  bring  him  out  to  Roanoke,  and  we'll  show 
him  what  Virginia  breakfasts  are  like." 


THE    PRINCE   COMES  307 

Colonel  Hampton's  sense  of  importance  was 
tickled  by  the  thought  of  having  for  a  guest  a  scion 
of  so  famous  a  house;  his  genuine  instinct  of  kindli 
ness  was  aroused ;  moreover,  time  hung  on  his  hands 
these  late  winter  days,  and  the  plan  appealed  to  him 
as  a  diversion. 

"Aaron,  tell  Sambo  to  saddle  Thunder,"  he  or 
dered. 


Prince  Louis,  in  his  dingy  parlor  at  the  inn,  looked 
at  his  visitor  from  between  half-shut  eyelids,  and 
measured  him,  soul  and  body.  He  considered  the 
invitation  for  a  silent  moment.  This  was  one  of 
the  great  men  of  the  country.  The  Prince  had  al 
ready  heard  his  name  and  the  name  of  his  historic 
home.  It  was  well  to  have  influential  friends,  more 
particularly  as  no  letter  awaited  him  as  he  had  hoped 
from  his  uncle,  Joseph  Bonaparte,  with  the  Ameri 
can  introductions  for  which  he  had  asked.  A  visit 
of  a  few  days  at  this  place  of  Roanoke  could  do  no 
harm  and  might  lead  to  good. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,"  lie 
said  gravely,  yet  graciously.  "You  are  most  good 
to  desire  that  I  visit  you.  I  will  do  so  with  pleasure." 

The  people  of  Norfolk  were  awake  to  the  fact 


3o8  THE   MARSHAL 

that  an  exiled  Prince  had  suddenly  dropped  among 
them,  and  when  an  aquiline-faced,  foreign-looking, 
small,  young  man  rode  out  from  the  city  by  Colonel 
Hampton's  side,  sitting  his  horse  like  an  accom 
plished  cavalryman,  more  than  one  citizen  turned  to 
look  with  comprehending  interest.  To  a  southerner 
it  would  seem  not  out  of  proportion  that  the  czar  of 
Russia  and  the  monarchs  of  England  and  France 
should  together  visit  his  city,  and  in  offering  them 
his  best  he  would  rest  content  as  to  their  entertain 
ment,  which  is  surely  the  well-bred  attitude.  So  that 
the  good  people  of  Norfolk  who  stopped  to  gaze  a 
moment  at  the  future  Emperor  of  France,  the  kins 
man  of  one  of  earth's  greatest  conquerors,  were  not 
unduly  impressed.  One  and  another  lifted  his  hat 
and  bowed  deeply  to  Colonel  Hampton  with  a  smile 
of  approval.  It  was  right,  it  was  traditional,  that 
the  Hamptons  of  Roanoke  House  should  take 
charge  of  a  distinguished  stranger,  and,  moreover, 
it  was  extremely  pleasant  for  the  stranger.  And 
impassive  Prince  Louis,  who  appeared  to  look  at 
nothing,  missed  neither  the  self-respecting  interest 
of  the  citizens  in  himself,  nor  their  profounder 
sense  of  the  importance  of  his  host.  Very  little 
passed  within  range  of  those  dull  gray  eyes  which 


THE    PRINCE   COMES  309 

was  not  filed  away  for  reference  in  the  mind  behind 
the  mask. 

Out  they  rode  through  the  sun-lighted,  wind- 
whipped  country,  dozing  restfully  through  its  last 
winter's  nap,  stirring  already  at  the  step  of  lively 
April  on  the  threshold.  The  air  was  sharp,  and 
nipped  at  the  Prince's  fingers  and  toes,  but  it  was  ex 
hilaration  to  be  across  a  horse  again,  and  the  exile's 
spirit — the  case-hardened  heart  of  steel  which  fail 
ure  and  misfortune  never  broke  till  it  broke  forever 
at  Sedan — grew  buoyant.  That  "something  about 
the  outside  of  a  horse  which  is  good  for  the  inside 
of  a  man"  worked  its  subtle  charm  on  this  finished 
horseman  and  horse  lover,  and  he  was  gently  re 
sponsive  as  the  colonel  talked  fluently  on. 

It  was  of  his  own  affairs  that  the  colonel  talked, 
of  his  thousands  of  acres,  his  hundreds  of  slaves, 
his  methods,  his  crops,  his  tobacco,  and  then  of  his 
family  and  their  history  here  in  Virginia,  and  at 
last,  most  absorbing  topic  of  all,  he  talked  of  him 
self.  He  explained  to  the  Prince  how  it  was  that 
he  came  to  speak  French  so  well,  and  not  a  gleam  in 
the  filmy  gray  gaze  betrayed  the  Prince's  opinion. 
But  a  pause  came  in  the  stream  of  words,  and  Prince 
Louis'  resonant  voice  filled  it. 


310  THE   MARSHAL 

"Does  it  so  happen,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  that 
there  is  in  these  parts  a  Frenchman  of — of  instruc 
tion — a  man  whom  I  might  use  as  a  secretary?  I 
shall  have  need  to-morrow  to  write  letters.  Would 
you  know  of  such  a  man,  Monsieur  le  Colonel?" 

Nothing  pleased  Monsieur  le  Colonel  more  than 
to  be  master  of  the  situation.  "Most  certainly,"  he 
answered  blandly  and  felt  that  the  Prince  must  no 
tice  how  no  demand  could  find  Colonel  Hampton 
at  a  loss.  "Most  certainly.  My  daughter's  French 
master  would  be  the  very  fellow.  He  is  intelligent 
and  well  educated,  and  what  is  more,  he  is  a  most 
ardent  adherent  of  your  family,  Prince.  He  has 
talked  to  Miss  Hampton  with  such  a  vehement  en 
thusiasm  that,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  I  believe  she  ex 
pects  to  see  you  fly  in  with  wings,  sir — I  believe  she 
does,"  and  the  colonel  laughed  loudly  and  heartily. 
It  was  as  good  a  joke  as  he  had  ever  made. 

A  vague  movement  twisted  the  muscles  of  the 
Prince's  mouth,  but  it  was  a  regretful  smile.  He 
was  wondering  if  the  inn  parlor  would  not  have 
been  better  than  this  fine  landscape  and  good  horse 
with  Colonel  Hampton's  steady  conversation.  But 
he  had  plenty  of  French  politeness.  "It  is  good  of 
Mademoiselle  to  give  me  her  favor,"  he  said  gra 
ciously.  "Mademoiselle  is  young — a  little  girl?" 


THE    PRINCE    COMES  311 

"Ho— ho!  Not  at  all!  Far  from  it.  You'll 
find  it  dangerous  to  say  that  to  Miss  Hampton  her 
self,  Prince.  She  would  most  likely  answer  some 
thing  saucy  to  convince  you  of  her  antiquity.  Six 
teen  she  is,  and  our  southern  girls  mature  young. 
According  to  my  fancy  she  is  of  a  marriageable  age, 
and  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence,  sir,  what  I  would 
not  tell  every  man — I  have  selected  the  man  she  is 
to  marry." 

"Ah!"  the  Prince  murmured.  Certainly  the  inn 
parlor  would  have  been  better  than  confidences. 
And  then,  as  the  colonel's  air  seemed  to  demand 
something,  "Is  it  known  who  is  to  be  the  happy 
man?" 

The  colonel  pursed  his  lips,  and  shook  his  head 
slowly.  "Well,"  he  said  deliberately,  "well,  it  cer 
tainly  is  not  known  in  general." 

"A  thousand  pardons!"  Prince  Louis  hastened  to 
say.  "I  am  far  from  demanding  your  family  secrets, 
Monsieur.  I  simply — how  do  you  say  it? — made 
conversation.  Shall  we  not  talk  of  the  country, 
Monsieur?" 

But  the  colonel  felt  an  expansion  of  brotherly 
love  toward  this  quiet  young  man  with  the  mighty 
background,  who  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  impress 
him.  The  deep  and  genuine  haughtiness  so  care- 


312  THE    MARSHAU 

fully  hidden  under  his  gentle  manner  had  its  effect 
on  the  soul  which  spread  its  wares  ever  before  the 
world.  He  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  become 
intimate  with  his  guest.  He  turned  and  laid  a 
hand  on  the  other's  arm,  blandly  ignorant  that  the 
muscles  tightened  against  it. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  Prince.  I  feel  it  an  honor 
that  I  should  be  able  to  impart  to  you,  and  I  know 
that  I  am  safe  in  imparting  to  you  the  arrangement 
of  a  family  alliance.  My  daughter  Lucy,  although 
she  herself  does  not  as  yet  know  it,  is  destined  to  be 
come  the  wife  of  the  oldest  son  of  my  cousin,  Car 
ter  Hampton,  himself  my  namesake,  Henry  Hamp 
ton  the  fifth.  His  estate,  my  cousin  Carter,  his 
father,  being  dead,  adjoins  my  own,  and  this  mar 
riage  will  unite  the  two  places  under  the  old  name, 
a  most  fortunate  circumstance  in  these  days  of 
changing  houses  and  broken  fortunes,  you  will  ad 
mit." 

The  colonel,  with  his  whole  soul  on  his  own  af 
fairs,  did  not  think  of  a  house,  better  known  than 
his,  whose  broken  fortune  knew  no  immediate  hope 
of  healing,  but  the  heir  of  the  house  smiled  another 
ghost  of  a  smile.  The  voice  flowed  on. 

"The  young  man  himself  is  in  every  way  deserv 
ing  of  even  so  brilliant  a  match  as  this.  He  is  a 


THE    PRINCE   COMES  313 

man  of  parts  and  has  traveled  in  foreign  countries. 
He  is  of  an  attractive  personality — in  fact" — the 
colonel  smirked — "in  fact,  my  flatterers  say  that  he 
resembles  me  strikingly." 

"One  could  ask  no  more,"  Prince  Louis  answered 
neatly,  and  the  colonel  was  satisfied. 

And  before  them,  at  that  moment,  rose  a  stately 
picture.  A  large  old  house,  built  of  dark  red  brick 
brought  from  England,  towered  suddenly  from  out 
of  the  bare  trees  of  its  park  like  a  monument  of 
calm  hospitality.  Its  steep  roof  was  set  with  dor 
mer  windows;  its  copings  and  its  casements  were 
white  stone;  a  white  stone  terrace  stretched  before 
it.  At  one  front,  as  they  came,  was  the  carriage  en 
trance,  and  the  squares  of  a  formal  English  garden, 
walled  with  box  hedges,  lay  sleeping  before  the 
springtime;  at  the  opposite  side  a  wide  lawn  fell  to 
a  massive  brick  wall,  spaced  with  stone  pillars, 
guarding  the  grounds  from  the  flowing  of  the  James 
River.  General  Hampton  gazed  at  the  home  of  his 
people  and  then  at  his  guest,  and  he  cast  the  harness 
of  his  smallnesses  and  stood  out  in  the  simple  and 
large  cordiality  which  is  the  heritage  above  others 
of  southern  people. 

"You  are  welcome  to  Roanoke,  Prince,"  he  said. 


c 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

BROTHERS 

OLONEL  HAMPTON'S  study  was  dark 
from  floor  to  ceiling  with  brown  oak  wains 
coting  and  was  lightened  by  a  dull  brightness  of 
portraits.  An  ancestor  in  a  scarlet  coat,  the  red 
turned  yellow  and  brown  with  time;  an  ancestress 
in  dimmed  glory  of  blue  satin  and  lace  and  pearls; 
a  judge  in  his  wig  and  gown,  gave  the  small  room 
importance.  A  broad  window  looked  through  bare 
branches,  lacy-black  against  sky,  across  a  rolling 
country  and  groups  of  woodland. 

On  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of  April,  1837, 
Prince  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte  stood  at  this  win 
dow,  staring  at  brown  fields  and  trying  to  trace  a 
likeness  between  this  new  world  and  the  ancient 
country  which  he  called  his ;  France,  where,  since  he 
was  seven  years  old,  he  had  been  allowed  to  spend 
but  a  few  weeks;  France,  which  had  freshly  exiled 
him;  France,  the  thought  of  which  ruled  him,  as  he 
meant  one  day  to  rule  her;  France,  for  whom  he 

314 


BROTHERS  315 

was  eating  his  heart  out  to-day,  as  always,  thous 
ands  of  miles  from  her  shores.  His  gaze  grew  in 
trospective;  in  a  long  panorama  he  saw  the  scenes 
of  his  picturesque  life — surely  a  life  of  heights  and 
depths  such  as  few  have  known.  Dimly  he  remem 
bered  the  gorgeousness  of  his  uncle's  court,  himself 
conspicuous  there —  a  little  lad  of  five — a  princeling 
whose  birth  had  been  celebrated  by  one  hundred 
and  twenty  millions  of  people,  in  twenty  tongues  and 
dialects;  vaguely  he  felt  the  agitated  atmosphere  of 
the  Hundred  Days ;  of  the  time  when  he  and  his 
brother,  in  hiding  with  their  mother's  dressmaker, 
had  trodden  Paris  streets  as  children  of  the  people. 
And  then  came  his  theatrical  escape,  with  mother 
and  brother,  into  an  exile  lasting  unbroken  for  fif 
teen  years. 

He  recalled  the  happy  life  at  Arenenberg,  in 
Switzerland,  and  the  work  and  play  and  soldierly 
training  which  all  pointed,  in  the  boy's  mind,  to  one 
end — to  serve  France — a  service  which  did  not  at 
that  time  mean  sovereignty,  for  the  Duke  of  Reich- 
stadt,  Napoleon's  son,  was  alive  and  the  head  of  the 
house  of  Bonaparte.  He  thought  of  his  short  career, 
his  and  his  well-beloved  brother's  together,  with  the 
Italian  insurgents  against  the  Austrians,  and  the 
lonely  man's  heart  longed  for  his  own  people  as  he 


316  THE   MARSHAL 

went  over  again  that  time  of  excitement  and  sor 
row,  ending  with  the  older  boy's  death  at  Forli  and 
his  own  illness  and  narrow  escape  from  capture. 

"What  a  mother!"  he  cried  aloud,  tossing  up  his 
hands  with  French  demonstrativeness,  as  the  mem 
ory  came  to  him  of  the  days  in  Ancona  when  he  lay 
at  death's  door,  hidden  in  the  very  room  next  that 
of  the  Austrian  general,  saved  only  at  last  by  the 
marvelous  mother's  wit  and  courage.  The  journey 
through  Italy  to  France,  that  was  drama  enough  for 
one  life.  Recognized  at  every  turn,  betrayed  never, 
and  ending  with — Prince  Louis  smiled  his  slow  dim 
smile — a  fitting  ending  indeed  to  days  whose  every 
minute  was  adventure.  He  thought  of  the  landlord 
of  the  inn,  the  old  cavalryman;  the  young  French 
man — Beaupre — that  was  the  name;  it  was  set  in 
his  memory;  it  had  been  in  that  tenacious  memory 
since  an  afternoon  of  1824,  when  a  runaway  school 
boy  prince  had  slipped  over  the  Jura,  and  played 
with  three  other  children,  about  a  ruined  castle;  he 
saw  Francois  Beaupre  take  reverently  in  his  hand 
the  sword  which  Napoleon  had  held — and  then  the 
alarm!  That  was  a  fine  sight — the  dash  of  the 
youngster  through  the  startled  mob  of  Austrians; 
the  flying  leap  to  the  horse ;  the  skirmish  to  get  free, 
and,  at  last,  the  rush  of  the  chase.  He  had  seen  it 


BROTHERS  317 

all,  watching  quietly  while  his  mother  and  the  land 
lord  implored  him  to  hide  himself.  That  young 
Frenchman — if  he  should  be  alive — if  ever  he 
should  meet  him  again  Prince  Louis  would  not  for 
get.  It  was  psychological  that  he  should  have  been 
thinking  this  when  a  knock  sounded  deferentially  on 
the  door  of  the  room.  But  picturesque  coincidences 
happen  in  lives  as  well  as  on  the  stage ;  in  Louis  Na 
poleon's  there  was  more  than  one.  "Entrez!"  he 
called  sharply,  and  then,  "Come  in !" 

The  door  swung  slowly  and  Aaron,  white-aproned 
and  white-eyeballed,  stood  in  it. 

"Marse  Prince,"  he  stated  with  a  dignity  of  serv 
ice  which  crowned  heads  could  not  daunt,  "ole  Marse 
sen'  me  bring  you  dis  hyer  Marse  Gopray." 

A  light  figure  stepped  before  the  black  and  white 
of  Aaron,  and  halted,  and  bowed  profoundly.  The 
light  from  the  window  shone  on  the  face  and  the 
dark  immense  eyes  that  lifted  toward  Prince 
Louis,  and  for  a  moment  he  stared,  puzzled.  Was 
he  in  the  present  ?  Surely  this  man  was  part  of  the 
past  which  he  had  been  reviewing.  Surely  he  had 
played  a  role  in  the  Prince's  history — where  ?  With 
a  flashing  thought  into  the  years  he  knew. 

"Mon  ami!"  cried  Louis  Bonaparte,  and  sprang 
forward  and  stretched  out  both  hands,  his  royalty 


318  THE    MARSHAL 

forgotten  in  the  delight  of  seeing  a  face  which  re 
called  his  youth  and  his  mother. 

Franqois,  two  minutes  later,  found  himself  stand 
ing,  bursting  with  loyalty  and  pride,  with  the 
Prince's  hands  clasping  his,  and  the  Prince's  trans 
formed  face  beaming  on  him. 

"You  rode  like  the  devil,"  said  the  Prince.  "But 
the  Austrians  had  the  horses.  That  poor  Bleu-bleu ! 
How  did  you  get  away?  Where  have  you  been? 
HI  on  Dieu,  but  we  looked  for  you,  Zappi  and  I !" 

"But  no,  your  Highness,  I  did  not  get  away," 
smiled  Francois  Beaupre  as  if  imparting  a  joyful 
bit  of  news.  "They  caught  me." 

And  he  told  briefly  his  story  of  the  five  years  in 
prison,  of  the  desperate  escape,  of  the  rescue  and 
voyage  to  America,  of  his  wrecked  health,  not  yet 
reestablished.  Through  the  account  shone  the  un 
conquerable  French  gaiety.  Another  thing  there  was 
which  a  Frenchman  and  a  Bonaparte  could  not  fail 
to  see — that  the  thought  of  his  service  to  the  house 
of  Bonaparte  had  been  a  sustaining  pride,  and  the 
hope  of  future  service  an  inspiring  hope.  With  en 
tire  faith  in  his  own  mission,  held  to  through  years 
of  trial,  Prince  Louis  knew  the  key-note  of  that  faith, 
and  heard  its  sound  like  music  through  the  other 
man's  words.  Here  also  was  a  life  with  a  guiding 


BROTHERS  319 

star,  and  his  spirit  stirred  to  see  that  the  star  which 
led  the  other  was  his  own.  That  currents,  which 
would  one  day  meet  in  the  great  river  of  his  power, 
ran  underground  through  the  world,  was  part  of  his 
belief;  here  was  one  of  them.  Who  knew  what  this 
man  was  fated  to  mean  to  him?  Three  times  al 
ready  he  had  dropped  into  his  path  from  a  clear  sky ; 
twice  he  had  saved  his  life  by  headlong  eager  sacri 
fice,  and  here,  thousands  of  miles  from  those  scenes, 
the  light  figure,  the  startling  eyes  appeared  to  him 
again,  at  another  time  of  deep  discouragement.  It 
seemed  a  happy  omen;  superstition  and  gratitude 
laid  hold  together  on  the  Prince's  troubled  mind. 
He  threw  himself  back  into  Colonel  Hampton's 
leather  arm-chair,  throne-like  in  impressiveness  and 
size ;  the  mask  of  impassivity  closed  on  his  colorless 
featues. 

"Sit  there,  Monsieur,"  he  ordered,  "and  tell  me 
your  life." 

Simply,  yet  dramatically  as  was  his  gift,  the 
young  man  went  over  the  tale  which  he  had  told  to 
Lucy  Hampton,  that  and  more.  And  the  Prince 
listened  to  every  word.  He,  too,  had  the  French 
sensitiveness  to  theatrical  effect,  and  his  over 
wrought  imagination  seemed  to  see  the  hand  of  des 
tiny  visibly  joining  this  story  to  his.  Here  was  a 


320  THE    MARSHAL 

legacy  from  Napoleon ;  an  instrument  created  by  his 
uncle,  which  he,  the  heir,  should  use.  Already  the 
man  had  proved  that  he  brought  good  fortune;  al 
ready  he  had  deserved  well  of  the  Bonapartes;  al 
ready  his  entire  confidence  in  the  return  of  the 
family  to  their  own  had  cheered  the  lonely  Prince 
beyond  belief.  There  was  a  long  silence  when  Fran- 
c,ois  had  finished,  and  Louis'  deep-pitched  voice 
broke  it 

"  'One  day  perhaps  a  Marshal  of  France  under 
another  Bonaparte,'  "  he  repeated  thoughtfully.  "It 
was  the  accolade,  the  old  right  of  royalty,"  and 
gazed,  as  if  reflecting,  at  the  other  man's  face. 

Heightened  color  told  how  much  it  meant  to 
Fran9ois  Beaupre  to  hear  those  words  spoken  by 
the  Prince.  He  waited  a  moment  before  he  answered. 

"May  the  God  above  kings  bring  your  Highness 
to  your  throne,"  he  said  low,  as  if  the  weight  of  the 
wish  hushed  him.  "That  I  should  be  a  Marshal  of 
your  Highness'  empire  is  not  of  importance,  yet  it 
was  the  prophecy  of  the  Emperor.  It  will  happen — 
I  believe  it  will  happen  as  surely  as  your  Highness 
will  be  Emperor." 

That  one  man,  not  a  great  man,  should  say  such 
words  seems  a  little  thing  to  influence  the  mind  of 
a  personage  such  as  was  Louis  Napoleon  even  in  his 


BROTHERS  321 

dark  days.  But  his  mind  was  thirsty  for  such  words, 
and  such  a  confidence  to  reinforce  his  own.  The  fail 
ure  at  Strasburg  had  been  a  bitter  blow,  and  his  later 
trial  and  condemnation  to  exile,  pluckily  as  he  had 
borne  it,  had  shaken  his  courage;  the  four  months 
at  sea  had  been  solitary,  the  landing  in  an  unknown 
country  without  friends  or  resources  was  hard  and 
lonely.  It  seemed  as  if  a  sword  were  fitted  into  his 
empty  hand  as  he  watched  the  illuminated  face  of 
this  man  and  listened  to  the  words  which  breathed 
sure  trust  in  a  destiny,  that  was  the  destiny  of  both. 
Since  the  world  began,  in  the  ranks  of  men  there 
have  been  those  whom  the  world  has  laughed  at, 
persecuted  and  followed.  It  is  they  who,  stepping 
out  of  the  lines  where  the  multitude  marks  time, 
rush  forward,  often  to  pitfalls,  to  sudden  graves; 
sometimes  to  heights  where  men  see  and  admire, 
and  follow  in  herds.  If  the  first,  they  are  despised 
and  forgotten,  but  if  the  other,  they  are  discoverers, 
inventors,  heroes.  Yet  there  is  the  same  enthusiasm 
and  the  same  stress  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  suc 
ceed  and  of  those  who  fail;  there  is  for  both  the 
vision  which  duller  eyes  do  not  see,  the  beautiful, 
unattainable  for  which  one  must  risk  everything. 
These  are  the  dreamers,  the  fanatics,  perhaps,  and 
perhaps  they  move  the  world.  To  Francois  Beaupre 


322  THE    MARSHAL 

a  wide  dream  of  power  and  happiness  for  France 
took  concrete  form  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor 
whose  looming  personality  had  brushed  his  child 
hood.  To  his  mind — the  mind  of  a  devotee — that 
touch  had  sealed  his  years  to  the  service  of  the 
family  which  meant  for  him  France's  greatness. 

As  the  man  who  was  to  be  Napoleon  III.  gazed 
dully  out  toward  the  dull  fields,  to  all  seeming  cold 
and  apathetic,  the  other  began  to  speak  again,  his 
face  working,  his  tones  trembling. 

"My  Prince,  I  will  tell  you — though  it  may  be 
of  little  moment  to  know — that  it  is  not  for  my  own 
advancement  that  I  care.  It  is  the  truth  that  I  would 
throw  away  a  hundred  lives  if  I  had  them,  to  see 
the  house  of  Bonaparte  rule  France.  It  is  only  so, 
I  believe,  that  France  can  become  great  once  more. 
We  need  heroes  to  lead  us,  we  Frenchmen,  not  shop 
keeper  kings  such  as  Louis  Phillipe;  if  it  has  not  a 
hero  the  nation  loses  courage,  and  its  interest  in 
national  life.  But  the  very  name  of  Napoleon  is 
inspiration — it  pricks  the  blood;  a  monarch  of  that 
name  on  France's  throne,  and  our  country  will  wake, 
will  live.  You,  my  Prince,  are  the  hope  of  the 
house  of  Napoleon." 

With  a  quick  step  forward  he  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  before  the  quiet  figure  in  the  throne-like 


BROTHERS  323 

chair;  he  seized  the  Prince's  hand  and,  head  bent, 
kissed  it  with  passion.  There  was  a  line  of  color  in 
each  cheek  as  his  face  lifted,  and  his  brilliant  look 
was  shot  with  a  tear. 

"If  I  may  die  believing  that  I  have  helped  to  win 
your  throne,  I  shall  die  in  happiness." 

Prince  Louis  had  his  mother's  warm  heart,  and 
this  went  to  it.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder,  familiarly  as  if  the  two  were  equals,  kins 
men. 

"Mon  ami"  he  said  kindly,  "do  not  speak  of  dy 
ing  for  me — live  for  me — that  is  better.  We  will 
rise  together.  Remember,  we  were  brothers  for 
some  days;  remember,  I  twice  owe  you  my  life; 
also  I  can  not  forget  that  it  was  in  the  uniform  of 
my  own  dead  brother  you  risked  yourself  for  me. 
Luck  will  turn — we  both  believe  it,  and  you  shall 
be,  as  the  Emperor  said,  'a  Marshal  of  France  under 
another  Bonaparte.' '  The  laconic  Prince  had  found 
language — he  was  talking,  with  unused  freedom. 
He  went  on.  "The  sovereignty  of  the  people  was 
consecrated  in  France  by  the  most  powerful  revolu 
tion  the  world  has  ever  seen.  I  stand  for  the  rights 
deposited  by  the  people  in  the  hands  of  my  family— 
the  rights  which  the  nation  has  never  revoked." 

The  brotherly  touch  on  Francois'  shoulder  was 


324  THE    MARSHAL 

withdrawn,  and  with  gentle  dignity,  with  a  glance, 
the  Prince  lifted  him  to  his  feet,  and  Francois  stood 
happy,  dazed,  before  him.  He  found  himself  telling 
his  plans,  his  methods,  his  efforts  to  fit  himself  for 
the  usefulness  that  might  be  on  the  way. 

"I  have  studied  enormously,  my  Prince.  All 
known  books  on  warlike  subjects,  all  I  could  borrow 
or  steal  I  have  studied.  Ah,  yes!  I  know  much 
of  those  things." 

Louis  Bonaparte,  with  an  exhaustive  military  edu 
cation,  a  power  of  application  and  absorption  beyond 
most  men  in  Europe,  let  the  gleam  of  a  smile  escape. 
He  listened  with  close  attention  while  Francois  told 
of  his  organization  of  the  youth  of  the  neighbor 
hood  into  a  cavalry  company,  and  of  their  drill 
twice  a  week. 

"And  you  are  the  captain,  Monsieur?" 

Francois  smiled  a  crafty,  worldly-wise  smile — or 
perhaps  it  was  as  if  a  child  would  seem  crafty  and 
worldly-wise.  "No,  my  Prince,"  he  answered,  shak 
ing  his  head  sagely.  "That  would  not  be  best.  I 
am  little  known,  a  foreigner.  They  think  much  of 
their  old  families,  the  people  of  these  parts.  So 
that  it  is  better  for  the  success  of  the  company  that 
the  captain  should  be  of  the  nobility  of  the  country. 


BROTHERS  325 

One  sees  that.  So  the  captain  of  the  company  is 
Monsieur  Henry  Hampton,  the  younger,  the  kins 
man  of  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  and  a  young  man  of 
great  goodness,  and  the  best  of  friends  to  me. 
Everything  that  I  can  do  for  his  pleasure  is  my  own 
pleasure." 

The  Prince  turned  his  expressionless  gaze  on  the 
animated  face.  "Mademoiselle  Lucy  likes  the  young 
monsieur?" 

"But  yes,  my  Prince — she  likes  every  one,  Mad 
emoiselle  Lucy.  It  is  sunshine,  her  kindness ;  it  falls 
everywhere  and  blesses  where  it  falls.  She  loves 
Henry — as  a  brother." 

"As  a  brother!"  the  Prince  repeated  consideringly. 
"Yes,  a  brother.  You  find  Mademoiselle  Lucy  of — 
of  a  kind  disposition." 

"Beyond  words,  and  most  charming,"  Frangois 
answered  steadily,  and  flushed  a  little.  He  felt  him 
self  being  probed.  With  that  the  facile,  mysterious, 
keen  mind  of  the  Prince  leaped,  it  seemed,  a  world 
wide  chasm.  "That  most  winning  little  girl  of  the 
ruined  chateau  of  Vieques — our  playmate  Alixe — 
you  remember  how  she  stated,  'I  am  Alixe,'  and 
was  at  once  shipwrecked  with  embarrassment?" 

"I  remember,"  Francois  said  shortly,  and  was 


326  THE    MARSHAL 

conscious  that  he  breathed  quickly  and  that  his 
throat  was  dry,  and  that  the  Prince  knew  of  both 
troubles. 

"Is  she  still  'Alixe' — the  same  Alixe?"  inquired 
the  Prince,  turning  ostentatiously  to  the  window. 
"Has  she  grown  up  as  sweet  and  fresh  and  brilliant 
a  flower  as  the  rosebud  promised  ?" 

Francois,  hearing  his  own  heart  beat,  attempted 
to  answer  in  a  particularly  casual  manner,  which  is 
a  difficult  and  sophisticated  trick.  He  failed  at  it. 
"They  say — I  think — she  has — oh,  but  yes,  and — I 
think" — he  stammered  and  the  Prince  cut  short  his 
sufferings.  "Ah,  yes!  I  see  that  it  is  with  you,  as 
with  Monsieur  Henry,  a  case  of  devoted  brother 
hood.  You  love  her  as  a  brother — you  will  not 
boast  of  her. 

"You  have  done  well,  Chevalier  Beaupre.  You 
have  done  so  well  that  when  the  time  is  ripe  again 
— it  will  not  be  long — for  Strasburg  must  be  wiped 
out  in  success — that  I  shall  send  for  you  to  help  me, 
and  I  shall  know  that  you  will  be  ready.  I  see  that 
the  star  which  leads  us  both  is  the  only  light  which 
shines  for  you.  It  holds  your  undivided  soul,  Cheva 
lier — I  am  right?" 

Francois  turned  his  swiftly  changing  face  toward 
the  speaker,  drawn  with  a  feeling  which  swept  over 


BROTHERS  327 

him;  for  a  moment  he  did  not  answer.  Then  he 
spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"When  a  knight  of  the  old  time  went  to  battle," 
he  said,  "he  wore  on  his  helmet  the  badge  of  his 
lady  and  carried  the  thought  of  her  in  his  heart.  A 
man  fights  better  so." 

And  the  silent  Prince  understood. 


HOW    LUCY   TOLD 

THE  Prince  was  gone.  There  had  been  festivi 
ties  and  formalities,  great  dinners,  gatherings 
of  the  Virginia  nobility  to  do  honor  to  his  highness 
at  Roanoke  House  and  elsewhere;  everywhere  the 
Chevalier  Beaupre  had  been  distinguished  by  his 
highness'  most  marked  favor.  And  Lucy  Hamp 
ton's  eyes  had  shone  with  quiet  delight  to  see  it  and 
to  see  the  effect  on  her  father.  For  the  colonel,  con 
fused  in  his  mind  as  to  how  it  might  be  true,  re 
luctantly  acknowledged  that  there  must  be  some 
thing  of  importance  about  this  Chevalier  Beaupre, 
that  a  Prince  should  treat  him  as  a  brother.  He  be 
lieved  that  it  would  be  best  to  treat  him — he  also — 
at  least  as  a  gentleman.  So  the  French  lessons  were 
continued  and  the  Jefferson  Troop  was  encouraged, 
and  Francois  was  asked  often  to  Roanoke  House. 
And  as  the  months  rolled  on  he  tried  with  every 
thoughtful  and  considerate  effort  to  express  to  the 

328 


HOW   LUCY   TOLD  329 

little  lady  of  the  manor  his  gratitude  for  the  good 
ness  of  her  family.  It  troubled  him  more  than  a 
little  that  the  early  friendliness  and  intimacy  of 
Harry  Hampton  seemed  to  be  wearing  off.  The 
boy  did  not  come  so  often  to  Carnifax,  and  when  he 
came  he  did  not  stay  for  hours,  for  days  sometimes, 
as  was  his  way  at  first.  He  was  uneasy  with  his 
friend,  and  his  friend  wondered  and  did  not  under 
stand,  but  hesitated  to  push  a  way  into  the  lad's 
heart.  "He  will  tell  me  in  time,"  thought  Francois, 
and,  sure  of  his  own  innocence,  waited  for  the  time. 
Meanwhile  he  was  going  home.  Going,  much 
against  the  advice  of  the  Norfolk  doctor,  who 
warned  him  that  he  was  not  yet  well  or  strong,  that 
the  out-of-door  life  in  the  mild  Virginia  climate 
should  be  continued  perhaps  for  two  years  more, 
before  he  went  back  to  the  agitation  and  effort  of  a 
Bonapartist  agent  in  France.  But  he  could  not  wait ; 
he  must  see  his  old  home,  his  mother,  his  father, 
and  all  the  un  forgotten  faces.  He  longed  to  watch 
the  black  lashes  curl  upward  from  the  blue  of  Alixe's 
eyes.  He  longed  to  hear  her  clear  voice  with  its 
boyish  note  of  courage.  It  would  put  new  life  into 
him,  that  voice.  It  was  seven  years  now  and  more 
since  he  had  left  them  all  at  a  day's  notice  to  go  to 
Pietro  in  Italy — to  a  living  death  of  five  years,  to 


330  THE    MARSHAL 

many  undreamed  of  happenings.    The  fever  was  on 
him  and  he  must  go  home. 

There  was  to  be  a  celebration  for  the  new  and 
very  fashionable  cavalry  troop  of  which  Frangois 
was  the  unofficial  backbone  and  author.  In  the 
great  grassy  paddock  at  Bayly's  Folly  the  proud 
mother  of  eighteen-year-old  Caperton  Bayly — first 
lieutenant,  and  the  most  finished  horseman  in  the 
Virginia  county — had  invited  the  gentry  from  miles 
about  to  feast  with  her  and  to  watch  her  son  and  his 
friends  show  how  the  Chevalier  Beaupre  had  made 
them  into  soldiers.  They  came  in  shoals,  driving 
from  far  off  over  bad  roads  in  big  lurching  chariots, 
or  riding  in  gay  companies,  mostly  of  older  men 
and  girls  and  young  boys,  because  all  of  the  gilded 
youth  were  in  the  ranks  that  day. 

The  day  was  perfect;  a  day  remembered  in  that 
part  of  Virginia  among  the  great  families  who  came 
to  see  their  boys  ride.  Yeardleys  and  Carters  and 
Littletons  and  Letchers  and  Bowmans  were  there; 
and  Joyneses  and  Harrisons  and  Bowdoins  and  Cas- 
tleburys  and  Churchills  and  Wises  and  Fitchetts  and 
Stewarts  and  Wards — and  the  rest  of  them,  names 
there  in  Virginia  when  Charles  I.  was  king.  The  big 
carriages  were  drawn  up  in  a  massive  line  and  the 
horsemen  and  horsewomen  stood  about  pictur- 


HOW   LUCY   TOLD  331 

esquely  in  and  out  of  the  saddle,  talking,  watching, 
admiring  the  surprising  military  things  which  their 
sons  and  brothers  and  sweethearts  were  doing.  And 
the  lads  went  through  their  drill  nobly,  and  the  stal 
wart  body  of  men  and  horse-flesh  formed  in  fours, 
in  twos,  melted  into  long-drawn  lines,  wound  into 
close  concentric  circles  and  unwound  again,  and 
charged  and  dismounted  and  leaped  into  the  saddle, 
at  Harry  Hampton's  shouts  of  command,  with  sur 
prising  accuracy;  also  to  the  unbounded  pride  of 
Francois,  who,  in  the  ranks,  watched  every  evolu 
tion,  every  move  of  every  rider,  with  anxious  de 
light.  They  did  wonders;  the  horses  were  on  their 
best  behavior  and  pushed  into  the  places  they  had 
learned  so  eagerly  that  the  riders  needed  hardly  to 
guide  them  at  all ;  the  whole  graceful,  inspiring  ex 
hibition  of  strength  and  skill  and  youth  and  vigor 
went  without  a  fault.  Harry  Hampton,  flushed 
with  deep  pleasure  at  this  first  trial  of  strength  of 
his  life  where  he  had  been  leader,  was  so  happy  that 
Francois  almost  forgot  to  gallop  to  the  head  of  the 
line  when  his  turn  came,  for  joy  of  looking  at  him. 
Then  the  drill  was  over  and  there  was  to  be  rough 
riding  and  jumping.  Hurdles  were  swiftly  dragged 
out  and  placed  in  a  manner  of  ring. 

"This  one  is  very  close  to  the  bank,"  said  Lucy 


332  THE    MARSHAL 

Hampton,  standing  by  Bluebird  and  watching  as 
the  negroes  placed  the  bars.  "If  a  horse  refused 
and  turned  sharp  and  was  foolish,  he  might  go  over. 
And  the  bank  is  steep." 

"Lucy,  you  are  a  grandmotherly  person,"  Clifford 
Stewart — who  was  another  girl — threw  at  her. 
"You  would  like  them  all  to  ride  in  wadded  wool 
dressing-gowns,  and  to  have  a  wall  padded  with 
cotton  batting  to  guard  them."  And  Lucy  smiled 
and  believed  herself  overcautious. 

The  excited  horses  came  dancing  up  to  the  bar 
riers  and  lifted  and  were  over,  with  or  without  rap 
ping,  but  not  one,  for  the  first  round,  refusing. 
Then  the  bars  were  raised  six  inches;  six  inches  in 
mid-air  is  a  large  space  when  one  must  jump  it. 
Caperton  Bayly  went  at  it  first ;  his  mother  watched 
breathless  as  he  flew  forward,  sitting  erect,  intense, 
his  young  eyes  gleaming.  Over  went  his  great 
horse  Traveler,  and  over  the  next  and  the  next — 
all  of  them;  but  the  white  heels  had  struck  the  top 
bar  twice — the  beautiful,  spirited  performance  was 
not  perfect.  Harry  Hampton  came  next ;  all  of  the 
kindly  multitude  gazed  eagerly,  hoping  that  the  boy 
to  whom  life  had  given  less  than  the  others  might 
win  this  honor  he  wanted.  The  first  bars  without 
rapping;  the  second;  and  a  suppressed  sound  of  sat- 


HOW    LUCY   TOLD  333 

is  faction,  which  might  soon  be  a  great  roar  of  pleas 
ure,  hummed  over  the  field.  Black  Hawk  came 
rushing,  snorting,  pulling  up  to  the  third  jump,  the 
jump  where  Lucy  stood.  And  as  he  came  a  little 
girl,  high  in  a  carriage,  a  chariot  as  one  said  then, 
flourished  her  scarlet  parasol  in  the  air,  and  lost 
hold  of  it,  and  it  flew  like  a  huge  red  bird  into  the 
course,  close  to  the  hurdle.  And  Black  Hawk, 
strung  to  the  highest  point  of  his  thoroughbred 
nerves,  saw,  and  a  horror  of  the  flaming  living 
thing,  as  it  seemed,  caught  him,  and  he  swerved  at 
the  bar  and  bolted — 'bolted  straight  for  the  steep 
slope. 

A  gasp  went  up  from  the  three  hundred,  four 
hundred  people ;  the  boy  was  dashing  to  death ;  no 
one  stirred;  every  muscle  was  rigid — the  spectators 
were  paralyzed.  Not  all.  Francois  from  his  baby 
hood  had  known  how  to  think  quickly,  and  these 
boys  were  his  pride  and  his  care ;  he  had  thought  of 
that  possible  danger  which  Lucy  had  foreseen ;  when 
the  jumping  began,  mounted  on  his  mare  Aquarelle, 
he  was  posted  near  the  head  of  the  slope,  not  twenty 
yards  from  the  hurdle,  to  be  at  hand  in  any  con 
tingency.  When  Harry's  horse  bolted,  one  touch 
put  Aquarelle  into  motion.  Like  a  line  of  brown 
light  she  dashed  at  right  angles  to  the  runaway — a 


334  THE    MARSHAL 

line  drawn  to  intercept  the  line  of  Black  Hawk's 
flight.  There  was  silence  over  the  field — one  second 
— two  seconds — the  lines  shot  to  the  angle — then 
it  came — the  shock  they  awaited. 

Black  Hawk,  rushing,  saw  the  other  coming  and 
swerved  at  the  last  moment — too  late.  The  animals 
collided,  not  with  full  force,  yet  for  a  moment  it 
looked  like  nothing  but  death  for  riders  and  mounts. 
Harry  Hampton  was  thrown  backward  to  the  level 
field ;  Black  Hawk  galloped  off,  frantic  and  unhurt, 
across  it;  Aquarelle,  one  saw,  lay  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  drop  and  was  scrambling  to  her  feet  with  live 
liness  enough  to  assure  her  safety;  of  Francois  there 
was  no  sign.  In  half  a  minute  the  breathless  still 
crowd  was  in  an  uproar,  and  a  hundred  men  were 
jostling  one  another  to  reach  the  scene  of  the  acci 
dent. 

It  was  two  minutes,  perhaps,  before  Caperton 
Bayly,  with  a  negro  boy  at  his  heels,  with  Jack  Lit 
tleton  and  Harry  Wise  and  a  dozen  other  lads  rac 
ing  back  of  him,  had  plunged  over  the  drop  of  land 
where  Francois  had  disappeared.  Two  minutes  are 
enough  sometimes  for  a  large  event.  In  that  two 
minutes  Lucy  Hampton,  without  conscious  volition, 
•by  an  instinct  as  simple  and  imperative  as  a  bird's 
instinct  to  shield  her  young,  had  slipped  from  her 


HOW   LUCY   TOLD  -335 

horse  Bluebird  and  flown  across  the  level  and  down 
over  the  steep  bank  till  she  found  herself  holding 
Frangois'  dark  head  in  her  arms  and  heard  her  own 
voice  saying  words  she  had  never  said  even  to  her 
self. 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  she  said,  and  if  all  the 
world  heard  she  did  not  know  or  care.  There  was 
no  world  for  her  at  that  minute  but  the  man  lying 
with  his  head  against  her  heart — dead  it  might  be, 
but  dead  or  alive,  dearest.  "I  love  you — love  you — 
love  you,"  she  repeated,  as  if  the  soul  were  rushing 
out  of  her  in  the  words. 

With  that  the  luminous  great  eyes  opened,  and 
Francois  was  looking  at  her,  and  she  knew  that  he 
had  heard.  And  then  the  training  of  a  lifetime,  of 
centuries,  flooded  back  into  her,  and  womanly  re 
ticence  and  maidenly  shame  and  the  feelings  and 
attitude  which  are  not  primeval,  as  she  had  been 
primeval  for  that  one  mad  moment.  She  drew  back 
as  she  felt  him  trying  to  lift  himself,  and  left  him 
free  and  was  on  her  feet,  and  then  with  a  shock  she 
was  aware  of  another  presence;  turning  she  looked 
up  into  the  angry  glow  of  her  cousin's  eyes.  He 
was  not  looking  at  her,  but  at  the  man  who,  dazed, 
hurt,  was  trying  painfully  to  pull  himself  up.  Harry 
Hampton  glared  at  him. 


336  THE    MARSHAL 

"We  will  settle  this  later,"  he  brought  out  through 
his  teeth.  "I  hope  I  can  kill  you."  And  Lucy  cried 
out: 

"Shame!"  she  cried.  "He  has  just  saved  your 
life!" 

"Damn  him!"  said  Harry  Hampton.  "I  do  not 
want  my  life  at  his  hands.  I  hate  him  more  for 
saving  me.  Damn  him !" 

And  Francois,  clutching  at  a  bush,  things  reeling 
about  him  unsteadily,  looked  up,  friendly,  wistful, 
at  the  boy  cursing  him. 

With  that  there  was  an  influx  of  population;  the 
whole  world,  apparently,  tumbled  down  the  steep 
bank,  every  one  far  too  preoccupied  with  help  for 
the  hero  to  remark  Harry  Hampton's  grim  humor. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE    FINEST    THINGS 

ENDURANCE,     Francois'     own    negro     boy, 
brought  a  note  to  Roanoke  House  on  a  morn 
ing  five  days  after.    It  read  : 


DEAR  Miss  HAMPTON  : 
"The  doctor  has  given  me  permission  to  ride  to 
morrow  and  I  wish  to  ride  to  Roanoke  House  be 
fore  all  other  places.  Will  Mademoiselle  see  me? 
Will  Mademoiselle  permit  me  to  see  her  for  a  short 
time  alone?  I  await  anxiously  a  word  from  you, 
and  I  am  your  servant,  FRANCOIS  BEAUPRE." 

Mademoiselle  sent  a  fair  sheet  of  paper  with  a 
few  unsteady  scratches  across  it,  and  sat  down  to 
live  over  night,  a  hard  business  at  times.  But  it  was 
accomplished.  The  colonel  had  ridden  to  Norfolk 
for  the  day  —  had  Francois  known  of  that,  one  won 
ders  ?  Lucy,  waiting  in  that  small  stately  study  with 
the  dim  portraits  and  the  wide  vague  view  across 
the  fields  of  the  James  River,  heard  the  gay  hoof 

337 


338  THE    MARSHAL 

beats  of  Aquarelle  pound  down  the  gravel  under 
the  window,  heard  Francois'  deep  gentle  voice  as 
he  gave  the  horse  to  Sambo,  and  waited  one  minute 
more,  the  hardest  minute  of  all.  Then  the  door 
had  opened  and  he  stood  there — the  miracle,  as  it 
seems  at  such  moments  to  a  woman,  possibly  to  a 
man — of  all  the  gifts  and  qualities  worth  loving. 

The  light  on  the  thick  bronzed  hair  with  its  dra 
matic  white  lock,  the  diagonal  of  fresh  color  across 
the  dark  face,  the  wonderful  brilliant  eyes,  the 
strong  leanness  of  his  hands — there  was  something 
in  each  detail,  as  the  two  gazed  at  each  other  in  a 
short  silence,  which  caught  at  Lucy's  soul.  That 
he  was  short,  and  so  unlike  all  the  men  she  had  ad 
mired  before,  was  somehow  an  added  charm.  The 
compact  light  figure  seemed  worth  a  hundred  big 
hulks  of  men.  The  injured  arm  in  its  sling  gave  her 
a  pang  of  tenderness,  a  thrill  of  eagerness  to  do  any 
thing,  everything  for  him.  A  tumult  of  these 
thoughts  and  a  thousand  others  beat  about  her  as 
Frangois  stood  grave,  alert,  in  the  doorway.  Then 
he  had  made  his  precise  bow,  and  she  had  heard  his 
voice  saying  gently,  "Good  morning,  Mademoiselle," 
and  the  door  was  closed;  and  they  were  alone  to 
gether.  In  a  flash  she  felt  that  it  could  not  be  en 
dured,  that  she  must  escape.  She  rose  hastily. 


THE    FINEST    THINGS  339 

"I'm  sorry  I  must  go ;  I  can  not  stay — " 

But  Frangois  had  laughed  and  taken  her  hand  and 
was  holding  it  with  a  tender  force  which  thrilled 
her.  He  understood.  She  knew  he  understood  the 
shame  and  fear  of  a  woman  who  has  given  love 
unasked;  she  was  safe  in  his  hands;  she  knew  that. 
With  a  sigh  she  let  her  fingers  rest  in  his  and  sat 
down  again  and  waited. 

"Dear  Mademoiselle  Lucy,"  said  the  deep  kind 
voice,  "my  first  friend  in  Virginia,  my  comrade,  my 
little  scholar — " 

Why  did  Lucy  grow  cold  and  quiet  at  these  words 
of  gentleness?  Frangois  was  sitting  beside  her, 
holding  her  hand  in  both  his,  gazing  at  her  with  the 
clearest  affection  in  his  look.  Yet  she  braced  her 
self  against  she  did  not  know  what.  The  voice  went 
on  with  its  winning  foreign  inflections,  its  slip  of 
English  now  and  then,  and  its  never-to-be-described 
power  of  reaching  the  heart. 

"See,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Francois,  "we  are  too 
real  friends,  you  and  I,  to  have  deception  between 
us.  We  will  not  pretend,  you  and  I,  to  each  other 
— is  it  not,  Mademoiselle?  Therefore  I  shall  not 
try  to  hide  from  you  that  I  heard  that  day  those 
words  so  wonderful  which  you  spoke  to  me  so  un 
worthy.  I  have  thought  of  those  words  ever  since, 


340  THE    MARSHAL 

Mademoiselle,  as  I  lay  ill  with  this  troublesome 
arm;  ever  since — all  the  time.  My  heart  has  been 
full  of  a — gratification  to  you  which  can  not  be  told. 
I  shall  remember  all  my  life;  I  shall  be  honored  as 
no  king  could  honor  me,  by  those  words.  And  be 
cause  you  have  so  touched  me,  and  have  so  laid  that 
little  hand  on  the  heart  of  me,  I  am  going  to  tell 
you,  my  dear  comrade  and  scholar,  what  is  most 
secret  and  most  sacred  to  me." 

Lucy's  hand  in  his  stiffened,  but  yet  she  did  not 
draw  it  away.  Frangois  had  not  begun  the  way  a 
lover  begins — she  felt  that  surely — but — it  was 
Francois.  What  faithfulness  and  truth  there  was 
in  any  one  answered  always  to  the  truth  and  faith 
fulness  of  this  man.  In  Lucy  Hampton  there  was 
much  of  both;  she  left  her  hand  lying  between  the 
strong  hands  of  the  man  who  did  not  love  her. 

In  as  few  words  as  might  be,  he  told  her  of  the 
peasant  child  who  had  been  lifted  out  of  his  pov 
erty-bound  life  with  such  large  kindliness  that  no 
bond  which  held  him  to  that  poor,  yet  dear  life  had 
been  broken;  who  had  been  left  all  the  love  of  his 
first  home  and  yet  been  given  a  home  and  a  training 
and  an  education  which  set  him  ready  for  any  career ; 
he  told  of  the  big-souled,  blunt,  Napoleonic  officer, 
the  seigneur;  of  the  gray,  red-roofed  castle,  with  its 


THE    FINEST    THINGS  341 

four  round  towers;  of  handsome  silent  Pietro,  and 
of  the  unfailing  long  kindness  of  them  all.  Then, 
his  voice  lowered,  holding  the  girl's  hand  still,  he 
told  her  of  Alixe,  of  the  fairy  child  who  had  met 
him  on  that  day  of  his  first  visit  and  had  brought 
him  to  her  father,  the  seigneur.  He  described  a 
little  the  playmate  of  his  childhood,  fearless,  boyish 
in  her  intrepid  courage,  yet  always  exquisitely  a  girl. 
He  told  of  the  long  summer  vacations  of  the  three 
as  they  grew  up,  and  the  rides  in  the  Jura  valley, 
and  of  that  last  ride  when  he  knew  that  he  was  to 
go  to  Italy  next  morning,  and  of  how  he  had  faced 
the  seigneur  and  told  him  that  he  loved  his  daughter 
and  had  given  her  up  then,  instantly,  for  loyalty  to 
him  and  to  Pietro.  And  then  he  told  her  of  the 
peasant  boy  in  Riders'  Hollow  in  the  gray  morning 
light  after  the  night  of  his  escape — and  how,  by 
hand  on  the  bridle  and  seat  in  the  saddle,  and  at 
last  by  the  long  curl  of  the  black  lashes  he  had 
known  the  peasant  boy  for  Alixe. 

Lucy  Hampton,  listening,  was  so  thrilled  with  this 
romance  of  a  lifelong  love  that  she  could  silence  her 
aching  heart  and  her  aching  pride  and  could  be — 
with  a  painful  sick  effort — but  yet  could  be,  utterly 
generous.  There  is  no  midway  in  such  a  case  be 
tween  entire  selfishness  and  entire  selflessness.  The 


342  THE    MARSHAL 

young  southern  girl,  wounded,  shamed,  cruelly  hurt 
in  vanity  and  in  love,  was  able  to  choose  the  larger 
way,  and  taking  it,  felt  that  sharp  joy  of  renuncia 
tion  which  is  as  keen  and  difficult  to  breathe  and  as 
sweet  in  the  breathing  as  the  air  of  a  mountain-top. 
Trembling,  she  put  her  other  little  hand  on  Fran- 
qois'  hands. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  shook  and  she 
smiled  mistily,  but  very  kindly.  "You  could  not 
love  any  one  but  that  beautiful  Alixe.  I — I  would 
not  have  you." 

And  Francois  bent  hastily,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  kissed  the  warm  little  hands.  The  uncertain 
sliding  voice  went  on. 

"I  am  not — ashamed — that  I  said  that — to  you. 
I  would  not  have  said  it — not  for  worlds.  I — 
thought  you  were  killed.  I — didn't  know  what  I 
said.  But  I  am  not  ashamed.  I  am  glad  that  I — 
am  enough  of  a  person  to  have  known — the  finest 
things — and" — her  voice  sank  and  she  whispered 
the  next  words  over  the  dark  head  bent  on  her  hands 
— "and  to  have  loved  them.  But  don't  bother.  I 
shall — get  over  it." 

The  liquid  tones  choked  a  bit  on  that  and  Fran- 
qois  lifted  his  head  quickly  and  his  eyes  flamed  at 
her.  "Of  course  you  will,  my  dear  little  girl,  my 


THE    FINEST    THINGS  343 

brave  Mademoiselle.  It  is  not  as  you  think;  it  is 
not  serious,  mon  amie.  It  is  only  that  your  soul  is 
full  of  kindness  and  enthusiasm  and  eagerness  to 
stand  by  the  unlucky.  I  am  alone  and  expatriated ; 
I  have  had  a  little  of  misfortune  and  you  are  sorry 
for  me.  It  is  that.  Ah,  I  know.  I  am  very  old 
and  wise,  me.  It  would  never  do,"  he  went  on. 
"The  noblesse  of  Virginia  would  rise  in  a  revolution 
if  it  should  be  that  the  princess  of  Roanoke  House 
gave  her  heart  to  a  French  peasant.  I  am  come  to 
be  a  man  of  knowledge —  And  he  shook  his  head 
with  as  worldly-wise  an  expression  as  if  one  of 
Guido  Reni's  dark  angels  should  talk  politics.  He 
went  on  again,  smiling  a  little,  an  air  of  daring  in 
his  manner.  "Moreover,  Mademoiselle  Miss  Lucy, 
there  is  a  fairy  prince  who  awaits  only  the  smallest 
sign  from  you." 

Lucy  smiled.  "No,"  she  said.  And  then,  "A 
fairy  prince — in  Virginia?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Mademoiselle  Miss  Lucy.  Of  the  true 
noblesse,  that  one.  A  fine,  big,  handsome  prince,  the 
right  sort." 

"Who?"  demanded  Lucy,  smiling  still. 

"Of  such  a  right  sort  indeed  that  it  is  no  matter 
— ah,  no,  but  perhaps  just  the  thing  to  make  one 
love  him  more,  that  he  is  lame," 


344  THE    MARSHAL 

"Harry !"    Lucy's  smile  faded. 

"But  yes,  indeed,  mon  amie,"  and  Francois  patted 
the  little  hand  with  his  big  one.  "Henry,  indeed. 
Henry,  who  is  waiting  to  kill  me  for  love  of  you; 
Henry,  the  best  truest  fellow,  the  manliest  bravest 
fellow.  Who  rides  like  Henry?  Who  has  read  all 
the  books  in  all  the  libraries  like  Henry?  Who  is 
respected  by  the  old  men,  the  great  men,  for  his 
knowledge  and  his  thinking  and  his  statecraft  al 
most — like  Henry?  Who  has  such  a  great  heart 
and  brain  and  such  fearless  courage  as  Henry?" 

Lucy  listened  to  this  eulogium  rather  astonished. 
It  strikes  a  girl  as  absurd  often,  when  a  brother  or 
a  cousin  is  pointed  out  as  a  personage.  But  it  pleased 
her ;  yet  she  did  not  say  so.  "Harry  is  a  good  boy," 
she  spoke  calmly,  "but — but  it  is  only  for  con 
venience,  for  joining  the  lands,  that  he  and  my 
father  wish  us  to  marry.  I  will  not  marry  a  man 
to  shape  some  fields  of  corn." 

Frangois  answered  gravely.  "But  no,  Mademoi 
selle,  never  must  you  do  that.  It  is  not  the  case, 
however,  that  your  cousin  cares  about  the  shape  of 
corn  fields.  He  is  not  interested  in  that.  If  you 
had  no  corn  fields,  if  you  had  nothing  whatever, 
Mademoiselle  Lucy,  he  would  give  his  life  to  marry 
you  just  the  same.  It  is  you  whom  he  loves  and  not 


THE   FINEST   THINGS  345 

corn  fields,  of  any  shape  at  all.  Also  he  loves  you 
to  madness.  For  that  he  has  hated  me — me  full 
of  gratification  to  him  forever — because  he  has  be 
lieved  that  I  would  try  to  win  from  him  your  heart. 
Mademoiselle  Miss  Lucy,  I  could  not  do  that  if  I 
might.  If  my  life  were  not  as  I  have  told  you  I 
could  not  play  him  false,  my  Henry — that  dear  boy 
who  wishes  to  kill  me."  Francois  smiled  a  little, 
half  amused,  half  wistful.  "And  in  all  case,"  he  went 
on,  "what  chance  should  I  have  in  the  end  against 
that  splendid  Henry  Hampton?  Mademoiselle,  you 
will  thank  me  so  one  day  that  it  will  be  very  painful 
to  me,  for  showing  you  how  it  was  not  Frangois 
Beaupre,  the  Frenchman,  but  Henry  Hampton,  the 
Virginian,  who  was  fitted  to  win  that  warm,  gen 
erous,  proud  heart  of  mademoiselle." 

"You  are  very  loyal  to  your  friends,"  Lucy  said, 
half  pleased,  half  stabbed  to  the  soul. 

"Certainly.  What  for  is  gratification  worth, 
otherwise  ?"  Francois  threw  at  her  earnestly.  There 
were  a  few  English  words  too  much  for  him  still; 
"gratitude"  seemed  to  be  one.  He  stood  up  and  his 
great  eyes  glowed  down  at  her.  "Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "two  women  of  earth,  my  mother  and  Alixe, 
are  for  me  the  Madonnas,  the  crown  of  women,"  and 
his  glance  lifted  to  the  ceiling  as  if  to  Heaven,  with- 


346  THE    MARSHAL' 

out  pose,  unconscious — a  look  no  American  could 
ever  have  worn.  "And,  voila,  Mademoiselle,  my 
little  scholar  will  always  stand  next  to  and  close 
to  them."  He  bent  over  her  hand  and  his  lips 
touched  it  long  and  tenderly.  "Is  it  right  between 
us,  mon  amief  Are  we  friends  always?  It  is  in 
deed  so  for  life  with  me." 

And  little  Lucy  felt  a  healing  peace  settling  on 
her  bruised  feelings  and  heard  herself  saying  gen 
erous  words  of  friendship  which  healed  also  as  she 
spoke  them. 

Then,  "I  must  find  that  savage  boy  Henry,  and 
beseech  him  to  spare  my  life,"  spoke  Francois  at  last. 
"My  life  is  of  more  value  to-day,  that  it  possesses 
a  sure  friend  in  Mademoiselle  Lucy,"  he  said  and 
smiled  radiantly.  And  was  gone. 

Lucy,  to  her  astonishment,  felt  light-hearted,  felt 
as  if  moved  into  a  large,  clear,  sunshiny  atmosphere 
out  of  the  stormy  unrest  which  had  lately  held  her. 
Also  she  found  herself  thinking  over  the  astonish 
ing  things  which  Francois  had  said  of  her  cousin 
Harry.  It  would  seem  indeed  as  if  the  undying 
love  for  the  Chevalier  Beaupre  which  had  possessed 
her  yesterday  might,  after  all,  have  been  a  very 
young  girl's  infatuation  for  an  older  man,  for  a 
dramatic  character — a  manner  of  hero  worship  it 


THE    FINEST    THINGS  347 

might  have  been.  Such  things  happen.  Lucy  Hamp 
ton,  level-headed  as  well  as  warm-hearted,  began  to 
see  in  an  unphrased  way,  even  as  soon  as  her  knight 
had  left  her,  that  it  might  be  so  with  her.  And, 
with  that  thought,  came  the  thought  of  Harry. 

"He  said — that  Harry  loved  me!  What  non 
sense!"  she  whispered  to  herself.  And  the  broken 
hearted  one  was  smiling. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ONCE    MORE   AT    HOME 

IN  fewer  words,  with  less  told,  FranQois'  straight 
forwardness  metamorphosed  the  angry  lad 
Harry  Hampton  into  a  follower  more  devoted  than 
he  had  been  even  in  the  first  flush  of  enthusiasm 
for  his  rescued  prisoner.  Again  the  boy  dogged  his 
footsteps  and  adored  him  frankly.  And  Francois, 
enchanted  to  be  friends  again  with  his  friend,  won 
dered  at  the  goodness  and  generosity  of  the  people 
of  this  world.  It  is  roughly  true  that  one  finds  life 
in  general  like  a  mirror;  that  if  one  looks  into  it 
with  a  smile  and  a  cordial  hand  held  out  one  meets 
smiles  and  outstretched  hands  in  return.  Through 
all  his  days  it  had  happened  so  with  this  child  of  a 
French  village. 

So  that  when  the  day  came  at  last  when  he  stood 
once  more  on  the  deck  of  the  Lovely  Lucy,  loaded 
with  her  cargo  of  tobacco  for  foreign  ports,  Fran- 
c,ois  felt  as  if  he  were  leaving  home  and  family. 
The  long  green  carpet  of  the  rolling  lawn  of  Roan- 

348 


ONCE    MORE    AT    HOME  349 

oke  was  crowded  with  people  come  to  tell  him 
good-by.  All  of  his  soldier  boys  were  there,  the 
lads  trained  by  him,  one  and  all  ready  to  swear  by 
him  or  to  die  for  him.  Lucy  and  Harry  stood  to 
gether,  and  the  servants  were  gathered  to  do  him 
honor,  and  people  had  ridden  from  all  over  the 
county  for  the  farewell.  His  eyes  dimmed  with 
tears  of  gratefulness,  he  watched  them  as  the  gang 
plank  was  drawn  up  and  the  sails  caught  the  wind 
and  the  ship  swung  slowly  out  into  the  stream. 

"Come  back  again — come  back  again,"  they  called 
from  the  shore. 

Francois  heard  the  deep  tones  of  the  lads  and 
the  rich  voices  of  the  negroes  and  he  knew  that 
some  there  could  not  speak,  even  as  he  could  not. 
So  he  waved  his  hat  silently,  and  the  ship  moved 
faster  and  the  faces  on  the  lawn  seemed  smaller, 
farther  away,  and  yet  he  heard  those  following 
voices  calling  to  him,  more  faintly : 

"Come  back  again — oh,  come  back  again!" 

And  with  that  the  negroes  had  broken  into  a 
melody,  and  the  ship  moved  on  to  the  wild  sweet 
music.  Way  down  upon  de  S'wanee  Ribber,  the 
negroes  sang,  and  the  ship  was  at  the  turn  of  the 
river.  The  stately  walls  of  Roanoke  House,  the 
green  slope  crowded  with  figures  of  his  friends,  the 


350  THE    MARSHAL 

sparkling  water-front — the  current  had  swept  away 
all  of  the  picture  and  he  could  only  hear  that  wail 
ing  music  of  the  negroes'  voices,  lower,  more  fit 
ful;  and  now  it  was  gone.  He  had  left  Virginia; 
he  was  on  his  way  to  friends.  And  for  all  his  joy 
of  going,  he  was  heavy-hearted  for  the  leaving. 

The  weeks  went  slowly  at  sea,  but  after  a  while 
he  had  landed,  was  in  France,  was  at  Vieques.  He 
had  seen  his  mother,  with  her  hair  whitened  by 
those  years  of  his  prison  life — a  happy  woman  now, 
full  of  business  and  responsibility,  yet  always  with 
a  rapt  look  in  her  face  as  of  one  who  lived  in  a  deep 
inner  quiet.  He  had  talked  long  talks  with  his  pros 
perous  father  and  slipped  into  his  old  place  among 
his  brothers  and  sisters,  utterly  refusing  to  be  made 
a  stranger  or  a  great  man.  And  over  and  over  again 
he  had  told  the  story  of  his  capture  and  the  story 
of  his  escape  and  the  story  of  the  Count  von  Gers- 
dorf 's  great  fancy  for  the  song  which  they  all  knew : 

"De  tons  cote's  Von  dit  que  je  suis  bete; 
Cela  se  pent!  Et  cependant  fen  ris." 

Family,  old  friends  who  gathered  to  see  the  little 
Francois  Beaupre  who  had  gone  so  far  from  his 
village,  all  these  hummed  the  song  with  him  as  he 
came  to  that  part  of  his  tale,  and  then  roared  with 


ONCE    MORE   AT    HOME  351 

laughter  as  he  told  over  again  how  he  had  written 
it  on  the  note  left  for  the  governor,  the  night  of  his 
escape.  That  was  distinctly  the  best  part  of  the 
chronicle  of  Francois,  to  the  taste  of  the  Jura 
peasants. 

At  the  castle  the  returned  wanderer  picked  up  no 
less  the  thread  dropped  so  suddenly  seven  years  be 
fore.  The  general,  to  whom  the  boy  seemed  his 
boy  risen  from  the  dead,  would  hardly  let  him  from 
his  sight;  Alixe  kept  him  in  a  tingling  atmosphere 
of  tenderness  and  mockery  and  sisterly  devotion, 
which  thrilled  him  and  chilled  him  and  made  him 
blissful  and  wretched  by  turns.  The  puzzle  of  Alixe 
was  more  unreadable  than  the  puzzle  of  the  sphinx 
to  the  three  men  who  loved  her,  to  her  father  and 
Francois  and  Pietro.  The  general  and  Francois 
spoke  of  it  guardedly,  in  few  words,  once  in  a  long  « 
time,  but  Pietro  never  spoke.  Pietro  was  there 
often,  yet  more  often  away  in  London,  where  the 
exiled  Mazzini,  at  the  head  of  one  wing  of  Italian 
patriots,  lived  and  conspired.  And  other  men  ap 
peared  suddenly  and  disappeared  at  the  chateau, 
and  held  conferences  with  the  general  and  Fran- 
9015  in  that  large  dim  library  where  the  little  peas 
ant  boy  had  sat  with  his  thin  ankles  twisted  about 
the  legs  of  his  high  chair,  and  copied  the  history 


352  THE   MARSHAL 

of  Napoleon.  These  men  paid  great  attention  now 
adays  to  the  words  of  that  peasant  boy. 

"As  soon  as  you  are  a  little  stronger,"  they  said, 
"there  is  much  work  for  you  to  do,"  and  the  general 
would  come  in  at  that  point  with  a  growl  like  dis 
tant  thunder. 

"He  is  to  rest,"  the  general  would  order.  "He  is 
to  rest  till  he  is  well.  He  has  done  enough;  let  the 
boy  alone,  you  others." 

But  the  time  came,  six  months  after  his  return, 
when  Francois  must  be  sent  to  visit  the  officers  of 
certain  regiments  thought  to  be  secretly  Bonapart- 
ist;  when  only  he,  it  was  believed,  could  get  into 
touch  with  them  and  tell  them  enough  and  not  too 
much  of  the  plans  of  the  party,  and  find  out  where 
they  stood  and  how  much  one  might  count  on  them. 
So,  against  the  general's  wish,  Francois  went  off 
on  a  political  mission.  It  proved  more  complicated 
than  had  seemed  probable ;  he  was  gone  a  long  time ; 
he  had  to  travel  and  endure  exhausting  experiences 
for  which  he  was  not  yet  fit.  So  that  when  he  came 
home  to  Vieques,  two  months  later,  he  was  white 
and  transparent  and  ill.  And  there  were  some  of 
the  mysterious  men  at  the  chateau  to  meet  him,  de 
lighted,  pitiless.  Delighted  with  the  work  he  had 
done,  with  his  daring  and  finesse  and  success,  with- 


ONCE    MORE   AT    HOME  353 

out  pity  for  his  weakness,  begging  him  to  go  at  once 
on  another  mission.  The  general  was  firm  as  to 
that ;  his  boy  should  not  be  hounded ;  he  should  stay 
at  home  in  the  quiet  old  chateau  and  get  well.  But 
the  boy  was  restless ;  a  fever  of  enthusiasm  was  on 
him  and  he  wanted  to  do  more  and  yet  more  for 
the  Prince's  work. 

Moreover  it  was  about  as  much  misery  as  joy  to 
be  near  Alixe.  Every  day  he  narrowly  escaped  tak 
ing  her  into  his  arms  and  telling  her  how  he  had 
loved  her  and  did  love  her  and  would  love  her  al 
ways,  right  or  wrong,  reasonable  or  unreasonable. 
It  was  almost  more  than  he  could  do  to  resist  that 
temptation  at  times.  And  at  times  it  seemed  that 
Alixe,  with  the  swift  lift  of  those  long  black  lashes, 
and  the  blue  gleam  of  her  eyes  into  his — it  seemed 
as  if  she  were  telling  him  not  to  resist  any  longer. 
He  did  not  know;  if  he  had  been  sure  what  sort  of 
love  that  glance  meant — if  he  had  been  sure  it  was 
not  the  sisterly  sort — he  was  human — he  could  not, 
perhaps,  have  resisted.  But  Alixe  was  a  thousand 
things  in  a  minute;  no  one  could  be  so  alluring,  so 
cold,  so  warm,  so  fascinating,  so  forbidding — all 
at  once.  How  could  Francois  tell  what  was  mask 
and  what  reality  in  the  proud,  sensitive,  merry, 
brave  personality  which  one  saw?  Yet  for  every 


354  THE    MARSHAL 

puzzling  phase  he  loved  her  more  and  wanted  her 
more.  He  had  much  better  go  on  diplomatic  mis 
sions  than  stay  and  ride  through  Valley  Delesmontes 
on  spring  afternoons  with  the  woman  he  loved  and 
might  not  have. 

At  this  point  two  things  happened :  Pietro  came 
from  London,  and  Frangois,  on  the  point  of  leav 
ing  for  another  secret  errand,  broke  down  and  was 
ill.  He  lay  in  his  bed  in  his  room  at  the  farm 
house,  the  low  upper  chamber  looking  out — through 
wide-open  casement  windows,  their  old  leaded  little 
panes  of  glass  glittering  from  every  uneven  angle — 
looking  out  at  broad  fields  and  bouquets  of  chestnut 
trees,  and  far  off,  five  miles  away,  at  the  high  red 
roofs  of  the  chateau  of  Vieques.  And  gazing  so,  he 
saw  Pietro  on  old  Capitaine,  turn  from  the  shady 
avenue  of  the  chestnuts  and  ride  slowly  to  the 
house.  With  that  he  heard  his  mother  greeting 
Pietro  below  in  the  great  kitchen,  then  the  two 
voices — the  deep  one  and  the  soft  one — talking, 
talking,  a  long  time.  What  could  his  mother  and 
Pietro  have  to  talk  about  so  long?  And  then  Pietro' s 
step  was  coming  up  the  narrow  stair,  and  he  was 
there,  in  the  room. 

"Frangois,"  Pietro  began  in  his  direct  fashion, 
"I  think  you  must  go  back  to  Virginia." 


ONCE    MORE    AT    HOME  355 

Frangois  regarded  him  with  startled  eyes,  saying 
nothing.  There  was  a  chill  and  an  ache  in  his  heart 
at  the  thought  of  yet  another  parting. 

Pietro  went  on.  "I  have  a  letter  from  Harry 
Hampton.  The  place  needs  you;  the  people  want 
you;  and  Harry  and  Miss  Hampton  say  they  will 
not  be  married  unless  you  come  to  be  best  man  at 
the  wedding."  Francois  smiled.  Pietro  went  on 
again.  "Moreover,  boy,  Francois — you  are  not  do 
ing  well  here.  You  are  too  useful ;  they  want  to  use 
you  constantly  and  you  are  ready;  but  you  are  not 
fit.  You  must  get  away  for  another  year  or  two. 
Then  you  will  be  well  and  perhaps  by  then  the 
Prince  will  have  real  work  for  you.  And  you  must 
have  strength  for  that  time.  Your  mother  says  I  am 
right."  With  that  his  mother  stood  in  the  doorway, 
regarding  him  with  her  calm  eyes,  and  nodded  to 
Pietro's  words.  So  it  came  about  that  Francois 
went  back  shortly  to  Virginia. 

On  the  day  before  he  went  he  sat  in  the  garden 
of  the  chateau  with  Alixe,  on  the  stone  seat  by  the 
sun-dial  where  they  had  sat  years  before  when  the 
general  had  seen  him  kiss  the  girl's  hand,  in  that  un- 
brotherly  way  which  had  so  surprised  him. 

"Alixe,"  said  Francois,  "I  am  going  to  the  end 
of  the  world." 


356  THE    MARSHAL 

"Not  for  the  first  time/'  Alixe  answered  cheer 
fully. 

"Perhaps  for  the  last,"  Francois  threw  back  dra 
matically.  It  is  hard  to  have  one's  best-beloved 
discount  one's  tragedies.  And  Alixe  laughed  and 
'lifted  a  long  stem  of  a  spring  flower  which  she 
held  in  her  hand,  and  brushed  his  forehead  deli 
cately  with  the  distant  tip  of  it. 

"Smooth  out  the  wrinkles,  do  not  frown ;  do  not 
look  solemn;  you  always  come  back,  Monsieur  the 
Bad  Penny;  you  will  this  time.  Do  not  be  melo 
dramatic,  Francois." 

Francois,  listening  to  these  sane  sentiments,  was 
hurt,  and  not  at  all  inspired  with  cheerfulness. 
"Alixe,"  he  said — and  knew  that  he  should  not  say 
it — "there  is  something  I  have  wanted  all  my  life — 
all  my  life." 

"Is  there?"  inquired  Alixe  in  commonplace  tones. 
"A  horse,  par  exemple?"  He  caught  her  hand,  dis 
regarding  her  tone;  his  voice  was  full  of  passion 
and  pleading.  "Do  not  be  heartless  and  cold  to-day, 
Alixe,  dear  Alixe.  I  am  going  so  far,  and  my  very 
soul  is  torn  with  leaving  you — all." 

It  takes  no  more  than  a  syllable,  an  inflection  at 
times,  to  turn  the  course  of  a  life.  If  Francois  had 
left  his  sentence  alone  before  that  last  little  word; 


ONCE    MORE   AT    HOME  357 

if  he  had  told  the  girl  that  his  soul  was  torn  with 
leaving  her,  then  it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  have 
happened.  But — "you  all" — he  did  not  wish  then 
to  have  her  think  that  it  meant  more  to  leave  her 
than  to  leave  the  others.  Alixe  readjusted  the 
guard  which  had  almost  slipped  from  her,  and  stood 
again  defensive. 

"I  won't  be  cruel,  FranQois;  you  know  how  we 
— all — are  broken-hearted  to  have  you  go." 

Francois  caught  that  fatal  little  word  "all,"  re 
peated,  and  dimly  saw  its  significance,  and  his  own 
responsibility.  Alixe  went  on. 

"I  wonder  if  I  do  not  know — what  it  is — that 
you  have  wanted  all  your  life." 

Eagerly  Francois  caught  at  her  words.  "May  I 
tell  you  Alixe,  Alixe?" 

"No."  Alixe  spoke  quickly.  "No,  let  me  guess. 
It  is — it  is" — and  Francois,  catching  his  breath, 
tried  to  take  the  word  from  her,  but  she  stopped 
him.  "No,  I  must — tell  it.  You  have  wished — all 
your  life" — Alixe  was  breathing  rather  fast — "that 
— I  should  care  for — Pietro." 

A  cold  chill  at  hearing  that  thing  said  in  that 
voice  seized  him.  Very  still,  his  eyes  down,  he  did 
not  speak. 

"Is— is  that  it?" 


358  THE    MARSHAL 

There  is  an  angel  of  perversity  who  possesses  our 
souls  at  times.  He  makes  us  say  the  unkind  thing 
when  we  wish  not  to ;  he  tangles  our  feet  so  that  we 
fall  and  trip  and  hurt  ourselves  and  our  dearest — 
and  behold  long  after  we  know  that  all  the  same  it 
was  an  angel;  that  without  that  trouble  we  should 
have  gone  forever  down  the  easy  wrong  way.  We 
know  that  the  perverse  angel  was  sent  to  warn  us 
off  the  pleasant  grass  which  was  none  of  ours,  and 
by  making  things  disagreeable  at  the  psychological 
moment,  save  our  souls  alive  for  right  things  to 
come.  Some  such  crosswise  heavenly  messenger 
gripped  the  mind  of  Alixe,  and  she  said  what  she 
hated  herself  for  saying,  and  saw  the  quick  result 
in  the  downcast  misery  of  poor  Francois'  face. 
And  then  the  same  cruel,  wise  angel  turned  his  at 
tention  to  Francois.  "If  she  thinks  that,  let  her," 
whispered  the  perverse  one.  "Let  it  go  at  that ;  say 
yes." 

And  Francois  lifted  mournful  eyes  and  repeated, 
"That  you  should  love  Pietro — yes — that  is  what  I 
have  wished  for  all  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

SUMMONED 

ON  the  morning  of  May  ninth,  1840,  the  sun 
shone  gaily  in  London.  It  filtered  in  intricate 
patterns  through  the  curtains  which  shaded  the 
upper  windows  of  a  house  in  Carlton  Gardens,  and 
the  breeze  lifted  the  lace,  and  sunlight  and  breeze 
together  touched  the  bent  head  of  a  young  man  who 
sat  at  a  writing-table.  A  lock  of  hair  had  escaped 
on  his  forehead  and  the  air  touched  it,  lifted  it,  as 
if  to  say  "Behold  the  Napoleonic  curl!  See  how 
he  is  like  his  uncle !" 

But  the  pen  ran  busily,  regardless  of  the  garru 
lous  breeze ;  there  was  much  to  do  for  a  hard-work 
ing  prince  who  found  time  to  be  the  hero  of  ball 
rooms,  the  center  of  a  London  season,  and  yet  could 
manipulate  his  agents  throughout  the  garrisons  of 
France,  and  plan  and  execute  a  revolution.  It  was 
the  year  when  the  body  of  Napoleon  the  First  was 
brought  from  St.  Helena  to  Paris,  and  Louis  Bona 
parte  had  resolved,  in  that  steady  mind  which 

359 


360  THE    MARSHAL 

never  lost  its  grip  on  the  reason  of  being  of  his  ex 
istence,  that  with  the  ashes  of  the  Emperor  his 
family  should  come  back  to  France.  For  months 
the  network  had  been  spread,  was  tightening,  and 
now  the  memory  which  held  its  friendships  securely 
always,  took  thought  of  a  Frenchman  living  in  Vir 
ginia.  As  soon  as  his  letter  was  finished  to  his 
father — the  pen  flew  across  the  lines: 

"The  sword  of  Austerlitz  must  not  be  in  an 
enemy's  hands,"  he  wrote  to  his  father.  "It  must 
stay  where  it  may  again  be  lifted  in  the  day  of  dan 
ger  for  the  glory  of  France."  His  letters  were  apt 
to  be  slightly  oratorical ;  it  was  moreover  the  fash 
ion  of  the  day  to  write  so. 

He  raised  his  head  and  stared  into  the  street.  It 
was  enough  to  decide  his  expedition  for  this  sum 
mer  that  General  Bertrand,  well-meaning,  and  ill- 
judging,  had  given  to  Louis  Phillipe  the  arms  of  the 
Emperor,  to  be  placed  in  the  Invalides.  Every  mem 
ber  of  the  Bonaparte  family  was  aroused,  and  to 
the  heir  it  was  a  trumpet  call.  He  could  hardly 
wait  to  go  to  France,  to  reclaim  that  insulted  sword. 
He  wrote  on,  finished  the  letter  to  the  exiled  king, 
his  father,  a  gloomy  and  lonely  old  man  whom  the 
son  did  not  forget  through  years  spent  away  from 
him. 


SUMMONED  361 

Then  he  drew  out  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper,  and 
his  faint  smile  gleamed ;  for  the  thought  of  this  ad 
herent  in  Virginia  was  pleasant  to  him. 

"Chevalier  Francois  Beaupre,"  he  headed  the  let 
ter,  and  began  below,  "My  friend  and  Marshal  of 
Some  Day."  He  considered  a  moment  and  wrote 
quickly  as  if  the  words  boiled  to  the  pen.  "The 
baton  awaits  you.  Come.  I  make  an  expedition 
within  three  months,  and  I  need  you  and  your  faith 
in  me.  Our  stars  must  shine  together  to  give  full 
light.  So,  mon  ami,  join  me  here  at  the  earliest, 
that  the  Emperor's  words  may  come  true. 

"Louis  BONAPARTE." 

A  knock  at  the  door  and  a  man  entered,  a  man 
who  seemed  sure  of  his  right  in  the  room,  who 
moved  about  the  Prince  as  if  he  were  a  bit  of  per 
sonal  belonging,  an  extra  arm  or  leg  ready  to  slip 
into  place.  The  Prince  looked  up  affectionately  at 
the  valet  de  place  who  had  been  his  mother's  serv 
ant,  who  recalled  boyish  days  in  Switzerland;  who 
had  managed  escapes  and  disguises  in  the  youthful 
exciting  times  of  the  Italian  insurrection,  the  dan 
gerous  journey  from  Ancona ;  who  even  now,  under 
Thelin,  was  getting  together  uniforms  and  equip 
ments,  was  casting  buttons  of  the  fortieth  regiment 
for  the  great  event  that  was  in  the  air. 


362  THE    MARSHAL 

"Fritz,  here  are  letters  to  mail."  He  pushed  them 
toward  the  man;  then,  as  the  last  slipped  from 
under  his  hand,  he  curved  his  fingers  about  it.  "Be 
careful  of  this  one,  Fritz,"  he  said.  '.'It  ought  to 
bring  me  the  brightness  of  my  star." 


Across  the  water,  in  Virginia,  two  years  had 
made  few  changes.  On  the  June  day  when  the 
Prince's  letter  lay  in  the  post-office  of  Norfolk  the 
last  of  the  roses  wrere  showering  pink  and  red  over 
the  gardens  in  a  sudden  breeze.  The  leaves  of  the 
trees  that  arched  the  road  that  led  to  Roanoke 
House  were  sappy  green,  just  lately  fully  spread, 
and  glorious  with  freshness.  Their  shadows,  danc 
ing  on  the  white  pike,  were  sharp  cut  against  the 
brightness.  And  through  the  light-pierced  cave  of 
shade  a  man  traveled  on  horseback  from  one  planta 
tion  to  another,  a  man  who  rode  as  a  Virginian 
rides,  yet  with  a  military  air  for  all  that.  He  patted 
the  beast's  neck  with  a  soothing  word,  and  smiled 
as  Aquarelle  plunged  at  the  waving  of  a  bough,  at 
a  fox  that  ran  across  the  road.  But  if  an  observer 
had  been  there  he  might  have  seen  that  the  man's 
thought  was  not  with  horse  or  journey.  Francois 
Beaupre,  riding  out  to  give  a  French  lesson  to  Miss 


SUMMONED  363 

Hampton  at  Roanoke  House,  as  he  had  been  doing 
for  four  years,  all  unconscious  as  he  was  of  the 
letter  waiting  for  him  at  the  moment  in  Norfolk, 
was  thinking  of  the  event  to  come  to  which  that 
letter  called  him. 

Down  the  velvet  that  swept  from  house  to  river 
at  Roanoke  House,  by  the  brick  wall  which  stretched 
an  arm  against  the  waters — a  dark  arm  jeweled 
with  green  of  vines  and  white  of  marble  statues — • 
there  was  a  rustic  summer-house.  It  was  furnished 
with  chairs  and  a  rustic  table,  and  here,  on  this 
June  day,  the  lady  of  the  manor  elected  to  study  the 
French  language.  The  Chevalier  Beaupre  was  taken 
here  on  his  arrival.  Branches  of  trees  whispered 
and  waved;  afternoon  shadows  ran  silently  for 
ward  and  silently  withdrew  across  the  lawn;  the 
James  River  flowed  by. 

The  two  good  friends  bent  together  over  the 
rough  table,  and  the  James  River,  slipping  past,  sang 
in  a  liquid  undertone.  And  the  time  went  fast  in 
the  pleasant  lights  and  shadows  of  the  place,  and 
shortly  it  was  two  hours  that  the  French  lesson  had 
been  going  on. 

"Lucy!  Oh,  Lucy!"  A  voice  called  from  the 
lawn,  and  in  a  moment  more  the  colonel  was  upon 
them.  "Lucy,"  he  began,  "somebody  must  arrange 


364  THE   MARSHAL 

about  the  new  harnesses ;  my  time  is  too  valuable  to 
be  taken  up  with  details.  Uncle  Zack  says  they  are 
needed  at  once.  It  has  been  neglected.  I  do  not  un 
derstand  why  things  are  so  neglected." 

"I  have  seen  to  it,  father.  They  will  be  ready  in 
a  week,"  Lucy  answered. 

Then  the  colonel  noticed  Francois.  "Good  day, 
Chevalier,"  he  spoke  condescendingly.  "Ah — by 
the  way" — he  put  a  hand  into  one  pocket  and  then 
another  of  his  linen  coat.  "They  gave  me  a  letter 
for  you,  Chevalier,  knowing  that  you  would  be  at 
Roanoke  House  to-day.  Here  it  is" — and  Lucy 
saw  a  light  leap  into  Frangois'  eyes  as  they  fell  on 
the  English  postmark.  "About  those  harnesses, 
Lucy.  Why  did  you  not  ask  my  permission  before 
having  them  made?  I  do  not  understand  how  you 
can  take  so  much  on  yourself." 

And  Lucy  spoke  quietly  again.  "I  did  ask  you, 
father,  but  you  did  not  see  to  it,  and  they  were  nec 
essary.  So  I  did  it."  And  then,  "Chevalier,  read 
your  letter.  I  see  it  is  a  foreign  one." 

"Will  Mademoiselle  pardon?" 

At  that  moment  an  uneven  step  came  down  the 
slope  and  Francois  flashed  a  smile  at  Harry  Hamp 
ton  and  retreated  to  the  other  side  of  the  summer- 
house  with  his  letter;  while  the  colonel,  murmuring 


SUMMONED  365 

complaints  about  harnesses,  went  strolling  up  the 
shadowy,  bird-haunted  lawn. 

Harry  Hampton  stood  by  his  sweetheart  with  a 
boyish  air  of  proprietorship,  radiant,  as  he  had  been 
through  these  two  years  of  his  engagement  "I 
have  it,"  he  announced.  "Don't  you  want  to  see  it?" 

"Wait,  Harry;"  the  girl  glanced  at  Francois. 
But  the  lad  caught  her  wrist.  "Look,"  he  said,  and 
opened  his  free  hand  and  a  plain  gold  ring  glittered 
from  it.  With  a  quick  movement  he  slipped  it  over 
the  little  third  ringer.  "There,"  he  said,  "that  will 
be  on  to  stay  pretty  soon,  and  then  Uncle  Henry 
shall  not  badger  you  about  harnesses.  He  has  made 
me  wait  two  years  because  he  needed  you,  but  I 
won't  wait  much  longer,  will  I,  Lucy?  Next 
Wednesday — that  is  the  wedding-day,  Lucy." 

With  that  Frangois  turned  around.  His  face 
shone  with  an  excitement  which  could  not  escape 
even  preoccupied  lovers. 

"What  is  it,  Chevalier?  You  have  news — what 
is  it?"  the  girl  cried. 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  Then :  "Yes, 
Mademoiselle,  great  news,"  he  said.  "The  Prince 
has  sent  for  me.  And  I  am  well  and  fit  to  go.  I 
have  lived  for  this  time;  yet  I  am  grieved  to  leave 
you  and  Harry,  my  two  old  friends." 


366  THE    MARSHAL 

"But,  Francois,  you  can  not  go  before  Wednes 
day,"  Harry  Hampton  cried  out.  "We  can  not  be 
married  without  you." 

And  Francois  considered.  "No,  not  before 
Wednesday,"  he  agreed. 

That  last  French  lesson  in  the  summer-house  on 
the  banks  of  the  smooth-flowing  James  River  was  on 
a  Saturday.  On  Monday  the  Chevalier  Beaupre 
rode  over  from  Carnifax  and  asked  to  see  Miss 
Hampton. 

"Mademoiselle  Lucy,"  he  said.  "I  have  some 
thing  to  ask  of  you." 

"I  will  do  it,"  Lucy  promised  blithely,  not  waiting 
for  details. 

Francois  laughed.  "You  trust  one,  Madem 
oiselle  Lucy — that  is  plain."  Then  his  face  became 
serious.  "Do  you  remember  a  talk  we  once  had 
together  when  I  told  you  of  my  old  playmate, 
Alixe?" 

The  bride-to-be  flushed  furiously  as  she  recalled 
that  talk.  Then  she  nodded  in  a  matter-of-fact 
manner.  "I  remember  very  well,"  she  said.  "It 
was  when  I  threw  myself  at  your  head  and  you  said 
you  didn't  want  me." 

Frangois'  shoulders  and  hands  and  eyes  went  up 
ward  together  into  an  eminently  French  gesture. 


SUMMONED  367 

"What  a  horror !"  he  cried.  "What  an  unspeakable 
manner  to  recollect  that  talk !  How  can  you  ?  How 
can  you  be  so  brutal  to  me  ?" 

Both  of  them,  at  that,  burst  into  light-hearted 
laughter.  Lucy  \vas  grave  suddenly. 

"But  you  have  something  to  ask  me,  Frangois. 
You  spoke  of  your — playmate — beautiful  Alixe." 

"It  is  only  you  whom  I  could  ask  to  do  this,  Mad 
emoiselle  Lucy.  I  have  never  told  any  one  else 
about  her.  Only  you  know  of" — the  words  came 
slowly — "of  my  love  for  her.  She  does  not  know 
it.  Alixe  does  not  know.  And  I  may  be  killed,  one 
sees,  in  this  fight  for  the  Prince.  Quite  easily.  And 
Alixe  will  not  know.  I  do  not  like  that.  In  fact 
I  can  not  bear  it.  So  this  is  what  I  ask  of  you,  dear 
Mademoiselle."  He  brought  out  a  letter  and  held 
it  to  her.  "If  you  hear  that  I  am  killed,  will  you 
send  it  to  Alixe?" 

Lucy  took  the  letter  and  turned  it  over  doubt 
fully.  "I  do  not  like  this  sort  of  post-mortem  com 
mission,  Frangois.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  holding  your 
death-warrant." 

"But  it  is  not  by  a  bit  of  writing  I  shall  meet  my 
finish,  Mademoiselle.  I  promise  not  to  die  one  min 
ute  sooner  for  that  letter.  It  is  only  that  it  will 
make  me  happy  to  know  you  will  send  it." 


368  THE   MARSHAL 

So  Lucy,  holding  the  letter  gingerly,  agreed.  But 
as  Francois  rose  to  go  she  stood  by  him  a  moment 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  coat  sleeve.  "Francois — I 
want  to  tell  you  something." 

"But  yes,  Mademoiselle — yes,  Lucy." 

"It  is  something  wrong." 

"Yes— Lucy." 

"I  am  going  to  tell  Harry  I  said  it." 

"Yes." 

"This  is  it,  then" — and  Frangois,  smiling,  waited 
and  there  was  deep  silence  in  the  big,  cool,  quiet 
drawing-room  for  as  long  as  a  minute.  "This  is 
it,  then.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  be  so  unreasonable 
— but  I  am.  I  love  Harry — I  am  happy.  But  I  am 
quite — jealous  of  Alixe.  And  I  think  you  are  the 
most  wonderful  person  I  have  ever  known — much 
more  wonderful  than  Harry.  If  there  had  been  no 
Alixe;  if  you  had — liked  me — I  can  imagine  having 
adored  you.  I  do  adore  you,  Francois.  Now,  how 
is  all  that  compatible  with  my  joy  in  marrying 
Harry?  I  don't  know  how  it  is — but  it  is  so.  I 
am  a  wicked  sinful  person — but  it  is  so." 

Frangois,  bent  over  her  two  little  hands,  kissing 
them  more  than  once,  shook  with  laughter.  "I  can 
not  guess  the  riddle,"  he  said.  "They  say  the  heart 
of  a  woman  is  an  uncharted  ocean.  A  man  must 


SUMMONED  369 

sail  blindly  over  those  waters  and  take  the  captain's 
word  for  it,  even  if  one  seems  to  be  sailing  two 
ways  at  once.  For  me,  I  am  not  very  worldly-wise, 
but  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  stop  believing  in  my 
friends  because  I  can  not  understand  them.  You 
are  yourself,  little  Lucy,  and  Harry  and  I  both 
know  better  than  to  let  anything  you  do  alter  our 
faith  in  that  beautiful  thing  which  you  are — an 
American  woman,  Mademoiselle  Lucy — you." 

The  next  time  Lucy  Hampton  saw  Francois  it 
was  when,  white-robed  and  sweet  in  her  enveloping 
mist  of  veil  she  went  up  the  chancel  steps  of  the 
little  Virginia  country  church,  and  looking  up  met 
a  smile  that  was  a  benediction  from  the  man  whom 
she  had  loved,  who  stood  close  now  at  the  side  of 
her  lover,  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE  PRINCE'S  BRIGHT  SHADOW 

THERE  are  old  people  living  in  England  to 
day  who  remember  hearing  their  fathers  and 
mothers  speak  of  a  young  Frenchman  of  uncommon 
personality,  constantly  seen  with  Prince  Louis  Na 
poleon  during  the  last  days  of  his  life  in  London  in 
the  year  1840.  Lady  Constance  Cecil  nicknamed 
this  Frenchman  "the  Prince's  -bright  shadow." 
There  seemed  to  be  a  closer  tie  than  brotherhood 
between  them,  and  the  tradition  runs  that  the  mys 
tical  Prince  had  a  superstition  that  his  luck  went 
with  him  in  the  person  of  the  Chevalier  Beaupre. 

The  days  of  that  summer  month  were  full  days 
for  the  conspirators.  On  the  surface,  arranged  to 
be  seen  of  the  world  and  to  throw  the  world  off  its 
guard,  was  a  steady  round  of  gaiety;  at  one  brilliant 
function  after  another  the  peasant  Francois  shared 
the  honors  and  the  lionizing  of  the  Prince.  Because 
his  visionary  eyes  looked  through  things  of  tinsel 
to  realities,  the  tinsel  did  not  dazzle  him.  He  gazed 

370 


THE    PRINCE'S    BRIGHT    SHADOW    371 

at  the  butterflies  of  the  world  who  fluttered  about 
him  and  saw  people  with  kind  hearts.  And  the 
butterflies  themselves  were  seldom  so  tawdry  but 
that  they  responded  to  the  simplicity  and  loving 
kindness  which  he  held  out  to  them.  Few  human 
telegraph  stations  fail  utterly  to  take  the  message 
when  the  great  universal  wireless  of  reality  sounds 
the  note.  So  that  Frangois,  not  suspecting  it,  gained 
in  a  few  weeks  on  many  English  hearts  a  hold 
whose  memory  has  not  yet  died  away. 

Beyond  this  evident  social  side  of  the  London 
life  lay  the  hidden  life  of  preparation  for  the  event 
to  come — the  attempt  on  Boulogne.  And  in  this 
both  the  Prince  and  his  close  follower  and  friend 
really  breathed  and  had  their  being.  There  was 
constant  excitement,  constant  labor,  constant  anx 
iety.  Once,  toward  the  end  of  the  time,  Franqois 
was  sent  on  a  flying  trip  to  France,  to  make  ar 
rangements  unsafe  to  trust  to  writing,  for  the 
Prince's  affair.  While  on  French  soil  he  found  time 
for  a  two-hours'  visit  to  Vieques  and  saw  his  mother 
and  Alixe  and  the  general.  Pietro,  also,  he  saw, 
Pietro,  who  was  to  have  joined  the  Prince  in  Lon 
don  by  now,  and  who  had  instead  incapacitated  him 
self  for  fighting  for  months  to  come.  A  village 
child  had  run  suddenly  out  under  his  horse's  feet, 


372  THE   MARSHAL 

and  Pietro,  saving  the  child,  had  thrown  the  horse 
and  had  been  badly  hurt.  So  he  lay  fretting  his 
heart  out  silently  at  the  castle,  and  when  Francois 
stood  by  his  bed,  brilliant  and  tense  as  an  arrow  on 
its  way,  Pietro  took  his  friend's  hand  in  both  his 
own  and  gripped  it  with  all  his  force  and  then  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall  without  a  word.  It  was  always 
Francois  who  was  the  hero. 

So  that  the  Prince's  secretary  sped  bade  to  Eng 
land,  sore  in  heart  to  miss  the  friend  of  his  lifetime 
at  his  side  in  the  good  fight  to  come,  yet  too  whole 
heartedly  ready  for  the  work  to  be  anything  but  an 
eager  sword  in  the  Prince's  hand.  The  day  for 
which  he  had  longed  all  his  life  was  at  hand.  The 
general  had  sent  him  off  to  it  with  a  rough  soldierly 
blessing;  Alixe  had  kissed  him  sisterly;  his  mother 
had  stood  in  the  farm-house  door,  shielding  with 
her  hand  those  calm  saint-like  eyes,  and  he  saw  her 
lips  move  as  he  looked  back  and  knew  what  she 
said  as  she  watched  him  ride  away  to  fight  for 
Prince  Louis.  To  fight  for  the  Prince !  Who  could 
tell  if  ever  he  might  ride  back  down  that  familiar 
road  under  the  chestnuts? 

But  it  was  all  as  it  should  be;  he  was  entirely 
happy.  He  had  asked  three  wishes  of  the  good 
fairies,  as  he  had  said  long  ago;  that  the  Prince 


THE   PRINCE'S   BRIGHT   SHADOW    373 

should  be  Emperor — thav1  he  might  become  "a  Mar 
shal  of  France  under  another  Bonaparte" — that 
Alixe  should  love  him.  The  first  two  he  believed 
about  to  be  realized.  The  last  ?  It  was  not  now  the 
time  to  think  of  that.  Alixe  had  kissed  him  good- 
by.  That  would  more  than  do  till  the  fight  was  over. 
So  he  sped  back  to  London,  missing  Pietro,  but 
hopeful  and  buoyant.  And  in  London  there  was  a 
letter  for  him  from  Virginia. 

"Dear  Francois,"  Lucy  began.  "To  think  that 
the  first  letter  sent  to  you  by  Harry's  wife  should 
be  to  tell  you  that  she  has  betrayed  your  trust  in 
her.  I  am  distressed  beyond  words,  for  I  have 
made  a  mistake  which  may  mean  distress  to  you. 
You  remember  the  letter  to  Alixe  which  you  trusted 
to  me  to  send  her  in  case  anything  should  happen  to 
you?  I  had  it  in  my  hand  the  week  after  my  wed 
ding  when  I  had  gone  up-stairs  to  get  other  letters 
for  Europe  which  my  father  had  commanded  me  to 
send  by  the  next  packet.  And  in  some  stupid  un- 
explainable  way  I  slipped  yours — your  precious  let 
ter — among  them  in  place  of  one  to  my  father's 
agents  in  London,  and  I  hurried  down  and  gave  the 
parcel  to  Sambo,  who  was  waiting  to  ride  to  Nor 
folk  with  them.  And  then  Harry  and  I  went  away 
on  a  visit  to  Martin's  Brandon  for  three  days,  and 
it  was  only  when  I  came  back  that  I  discovered  the 


374  THE    MARSHAL 

dreadful  mistake  I  had  made.  Can  you  ever  for 
give  me?  Harry  and  I  thought  over  every  possi 
bility  of  stopping  it,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no 
chance.  Are  you  very  angry  with  me,  dear  friend 
of  Harry's  and  of  mine?" 

The  letter  went  on  with  reproaches  and  regrets 
and  finally  slipped  into  a  tale  of  a  new  happy  life 
which  Francois  had  made  possible  for  the  two.  He 
read  it  over  several  times.  His  letter  to  Alixe, 
which  should  have  been  sent  only  after  his  death, 
had  gone  to  her.  What  then?  She  would  know 
that  he  loved  her;  that  he  had  loved  her  always; 
that  he  would  love  her  forever ;  that  the  one  wish  of 
his  life  had  been  that  she  should  love  himself — not 
Pietro.  He  had  said  that  in  the  letter;  that  was  all. 
He  was  glad  that  she  should  know,  though  he  would 
never  have  told  her  in  life.  It  was  done  and  he 
would  find  out  now  if  Pietro  indeed  cared  for  her, 
if  she  cared  for  Pietro.  And  if  not,  then  one  had 
waited  long  enough;  then  at  last — the  joy  of  the 
thought  choked  him.  Through  the  years  of  renun 
ciation  that  hope  had  not  died.  And  now  his  letter 
had  gone  and  the  consequences  must  follow — after 
the  fight.  Everything  must  go  till  after  the  fight. 
Alixe  had  not  had  the  letter  before  he  saw  her,  this 
last  time  in  Vieques;  he  was  sure  of  that  as  he 


THE    PRINCE'S    BRIGHT    SHADOW     375 

thought  back  and  remembered  each  word,  each  look 
of  those  short  hours.  But  she  would  have  it  soon; 
in  fact  she  had  it  now  likely ;  his  heart  beat  fast — 
she  knew  now  that  he  loved  her. 

A  knock  came  at  the  door  of  the  room  in  the 
London  lodging  where  he  sat  with  Lucy  Hampton's 
letter  before  him.  Fritz  Rickenbach  stood  there; 
his  Highness  would  like  to  see  the  Chevalier.  All 
personal  thoughts  were  locked  swiftly  into  the 
drawer  with  Lucy's  letter  and  "the  Prince's  bright 
shadow"  went  to  the  Prince. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE   THIRD   WISH 

ON  the  day  when  Francois  in  London  read  that 
letter  of  Lucy  Hampton's  which  had  awaited 
his  return  from  France,  a  letter  from  Lucy  Hamp 
ton  reached  Alixe  at  the  chateau  of  Vieques.  She 
carried  it  to  Pietro's  room  where  he  sat  in  a  deep 
chair  at  a  window  which  looked  over  Delesmontes 
Valley  and  the  racing  Cheulte  River,  and  the  village 
strung  on  the  shores.  His  elbow  on  the  stone 
window-sill,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  he  stared  at  the 
familiar  picture. 

Alixe,  coming  in  without  knocking  at  the  open 
door,  stepped  across  and  stood  by  him,  and  he  did 
not  yet  lift  his  head,  his  listless  eyes  did  not  yet 
shift  their  gaze  from  the  broad  landscape.  Alixe, 
looking  down  at  the  black  head  with  its  short  curls 
set  in  thick  locks — after  the  manner  of  the  curls  of 
Praxiteles'  Hermes — was  startled  to  see  many 
bright  lines  of  gray  through  the  dark  mass.  Was 
everybody  getting  old?  FranQois  with  the  broad 

376 


THE   THIRD    WISH  377 

band  of  white  in  his  hair — and  now  Pietro — big 
little  Pietro,  who  had  come  to  them  and  learned  to 
ride  Coq  and  played  with  them.  .Was  Pietro  get 
ting  old  and  gray? 

.By  one  of  the  sudden  impulses  characteristic  of 
her,  her  hand  flew  out  and  rested  on  the  curled  head 
as  if  to  protect  it,  motherly,  from  the  whitening  of 
time. 

And  Pietro  turned  slowly  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  eyes  full  of  hopelessness  and  adoration.  Such 
a  look  he  had  never  before  given  her;  such  a  look 
no  one  could  mistake  except  a  woman  who  would 
not  let  herself  understand. 

"It  is  good  to  be  up  and  at  the  window,  isn't  it?" 
Alixe  spoke  cheerfully,  and  her  hand  left  his  head 
and  she  went  on  in  a  gay  disengaged  tone.  "You 
will  be  down-stairs  in  two  or  three  days  now,  and 
then  it  is  only  a  jump  to  being  out  and  about,  and 
then — then  in  a  minute  you  will  be  well  again." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Pietro  answered  without  animation. 
"It  will  not  be  long  before  I  am  well." 

"Look,  Pietro;"  Alixe  held  out  the  paper  in  her 
hand.  "Such  a  queer  letter!  From  Virginia.  From 
the  little  Lucy  Hampton  of  whom  Francois  talks. 
I  don't  understand  it.  Will  you  let  me  read  it  to 
you?" 


378  THE    MARSHAL 

"Surely,"  said  Pietro,  and  waited  with  his  un 
smiling  eyes  on  her  face. 

"My  dear  Mademoiselle,"  Alixe  read.  "I  am 
writing  to  beg  your  forgiveness,  as  I  have  begged 
that  of  the  Chevalier  Beaupre,  for  the  very  great 
fault  I  have  committed.  The  Chevalier  trusted  to 
me  a  letter  for  you  which  was  to  have  been  sent  you 
only  in  case  of  a  certain  event;  by  a  carelessness 
which,  unmeant  as  it  was,  I  shall  never  forgive  my 
self,  I  gave  it  with  other  letters  to  our  negro  Sambo 
to  be  posted  at  once.  By  now  it  may  have  reached 
you.  I  can  not  tell  if  I  have  made  trouble  or  not, 
but  in  any  case,  I  can  not  rest  without  saying  to  you 
• — as  well  as  to  the  Chevalier — how  sorry  I  am.  If 
you  can  find  it  in  your  heart  to  forgive  me,  please 
do  so,  dear  Mademoiselle.  That  I  should  have 
made  trouble  for  one  as  dear  to  the  Chevalier  as  you 
are  is  a  deep  grief  to  me.  He  has  talked  to  me  of 
you.  With  a  very  earnest  prayer  again  for  your 
forgiveness  I  am,  Mademoiselle,  yours  faithfully 
and  sincerely — LUCY  HAMPTON  HAMPTON." 

Pietro  looked  bewildered.  "What  is  it  about?" 
he  asked. 

"I  wonder,"  and  Alixe  laughed  and  frowned  at 
the  paper  in  her  hand.  "It  seems  Franqois  wrote 
me  a  letter  and  left  it  with  little  Mistress  Hampton 


THE   THIRD    WISH  379 

to  be  sent  'in  case  of  a  certain  event.'  What  event? 
What  a  strange  thing  for  Francois  to  do!  And 
then  he  came  to  us  here  and  said  nothing  of  mys 
terious  letters  left  cooking  in  Virginia.  I  can  not 
make  it  out,  Pietro — can  you?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Pietro. 

"The  letter  of  Francois  has  not  come;  that  is  cer 
tain  ;  I  wonder  if  the  negro  Sambo  lost  it." 

"Probably,"  Pietro  said.  "It  should  have  come 
before  this  one,  otherwise." 

"It  is  a  riddle,"  Alixe  decided,  "and  I  never  guess 
them."  Then,  dropping  into  a  seat  on  the  wide 
window-sill,  "Pietro — you  are  letting  yourself  be 
depressed." 

The  gray  eyes  met  hers  with  something  that 
seemed  a  wall  of  reserve  in  their  steady  glance.  "I 
think  possibly  I  miss  having  no  exercise,"  he  said. 
"I  will  feel  more  natural  when  I  can  get  about." 

Alixe  looked  at  him.  "You  are  eating  your  heart 
out  to  be  with  Francois,"  she  said,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his. 

Pietro  started  as  if  the  light  touch  had  shaken 
him;  then  slowly  his  large  fingers  twisted  lightly 
around  the  small  ones,  and  he  turned  his  face  again, 
holding  her  hand  so,  to  the  window  and  the  view  of 
the  valley  and  the  river  and  the  village.  A  moment 


380  THE    MARSHAL 

they  sat  so,  the  girl's  hand  loose  in  the  hollow  of  the 
man's ;  a  slow  red  crept  into  Alixe's  face ;  there  was 
confusion  in  her  brain.  She  had  laid  her  hand  on 
that  of  her  brother;  her  brother  had  taken  it  in  his 
• — and  behold,  by  a  witchcraft  it  was  all  changed. 
This  delicate  big  grasp  that  held  her  was  not  broth 
erly  ;  through  all  her  veins  suddenly  she  knew  that ; 
the  flush  shot  up  to  her  eyes,  to  her  forehead,  and 
she  tried,  with  an  attempt  at  an  every-day  manner, 
to  draw  her  hand  away.  But  Pietro,  his  set  pale 
face  toward  the  window,  his  eyes  gazing  out,  held 
her  hand.  With  that  the  world  had  reeled  and  was 
whirling  past  her.  Pietro  had  caught  both  her 
hands  in  a  tight  grip  and  had  drawn  them  against 
him,  was  holding  them  there,  was  looking  at  her 
with  a  face  which  not  even  she,  this  time,  might 
mistake. 

"Alixe,"  he  said,  "I  know  you  don't  care  for  me. 
I  know  you  love  Francois.  I  did  not  mean  ever  to 
speak,  but  when  you  put  your  hand  on  mine — " 

He  held  her  palms  together  and  parted  the  palms 
and  kissed  the  finger-tips,  first  of  one  and  then  of 
the  other,  as  if  he  kissed  something  holy. 

"I  shall  never  speak  again,  but  this  once  I  will. 
I  always  loved  you — one  must.  I  knew  always  that 
a.  slow  silent  person  like  me  would  have  no  chance 


THE   THIRD   WISH  381 

against  a  fellow  like  Francois.  So  I  have  kept  still, 
and  it  was  hard.  It  won't  be  so  hard  now  that  you 
know.  Are  you  angry,  Alixe?" 

Alixe,  with  her  head  bent  so  that  Pietro  did  not 
see  her  face,  with  her  head  bending  lower — lower, 
suddenly  was  on  her  knees  by  the  chair  and  her  face 
was  on  Pietro's  arm. 

"Alixe,"  he  whispered,  "what  is  it — what  have 
I  done?" 

But  the  brown  waves  of  hair  with  the  blue  ribbon 
tied  around  them  lay  motionless  on  his  arm.  And 
suddenly  a  thought  shook  him. 

"It  can  not  be !"  he  gasped. 

And  Alixe  lifted  her  face,  and  the  exaggerated 
black  lashes  lifted,  and  the  blue  glance  lifted  and 
rested  on  Pietro's  black  hair  bent  down  where  the 
light  shone  on  the  silver  lines  through  it.  Up  flashed 
her  hand  impulsively,  gently — as  Alixe  did  things, 
and  touched  the  thick  lock  with  an  infinitely  delicate 
caress.  "Your  hair — is  all  turning  gray,"  she  whis 
pered  in  two  quick  breaths,  and  at  that,  in  some  oc 
cult  fashion  Pietro  knew. 

It  makes  little  difference  of  what  wood  the  match 
is  made  which  sets  fire  to  the  mine ;  it  makes  little 
difference  what  words  are  spoken  when  that  tale  is 
telling.  Anything  says  it.  At  a  certain  moment  a 


382  THE    MARSHAL 

man  might  remark  that  grass  was  green,  and  a 
woman  might  answer  that  it  appeared  pink  to  her — 
and  it  would  be  love-making.  The  voice  and  the 
look  and  the  very  atmosphere  about  would  do  the 
work;  words  are  a  detail.  So  does  the  soul  out-fly 
its  slow  vehicle  of  speech  when  the  rushing  mighty 
wind  of  such  a  feeling  lifts  and  speeds  it.  Pietro 
knew;  for  all  his  self-distrust  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms  and  held  her  without  one  shadow  of  doubt 
that  she  loved  him  and  belonged  to  him. 

For  moments  they  had  no  need  of  that  makeshift, 
language;  the  great  house  was  very  quiet,  and  one 
heard  the  horses  stamping  in  the  paved  courtyard 
and  the  grooms  singing,  and  yet  one  did  not  hear  it. 
Distant  sounds  came  from  the  village,  but  one  only 
knew  that  long  after,  in  remembering  that  morning. 
All  they  knew  was  that  the  ghost  of  a  lifelong  affec 
tion  of  brother  and  sister  stood  before  them, 
changed  by  a  miracle  to  a  shining  angel  into  whose 
face,  for  these  first  moments,  they  dared  not  look. 
Then  slowly,  exquisitely,  courage  came  and,  hand 
close  in  hand,  they  looked  at  each  other  astonished, 
glad.  It  was  Pietro  and  Alixe  still,  the  ancient  play 
fellows,  the  childhood  friends — all  the  dear  famil 
iarity  was  there  yet,  but  no  longer  were  they  brother 


THE   THIRD   WISH  383 

and  sister.  And  then,  after  a  while  they  began  to 
compare  notes  of  things  hidden. 

"When  did  you  begin — to  like  me — this  way, 
Pietro?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Pietro  stupidly.  "Does 
it  make  any  difference?" 

"A  great  deal,"  Alixe  insisted.  "It's  important. 
It's  historical." 

"But  this  isn't  history,"  said  Pietro. 

Alixe,  however,  returned  to  the  charge.  "Last 
year?" 

"Last  year — what?"  Pietro  asked;  he  had  already 
forgotten  the  question.  "Oh — that  I  began  to — 
Mon  Dieu — no.  Last  year!  Why,  I  think  it  was 
the  day  I  came  and  saw  you  riding  Coq." 

"Oh,  Pietro — if  you  will  talk  only  nonsense!" 
Alixe's  voice  was  disappointed.  "But  why,  then, 
didn't  you  ever  say  so  before  this?  We  are  both 
a  thousand  years  old  now.  If  you — loved  me" — • 
she  spoke  the  word  in  a  lower  voice — "why,  then, 
were  you  as  quiet  as  a  mouse  about  it  all  these 
years?" 

"I  thought  you  cared  for  Francois,"  Pietro  said 
simply.  And  added,  "Didn't  you?" 

Alixe  considered.     "I  don't — think — I  ever  did, 


384  THE    MARSHAL 

Pietro.  Not  really.  I  thought  I  did  perhaps.  He 
dazzled  me — Francois — with  his  way  of  doing  all 
sorts  of  things  brilliantly,  and  that  wonderful  some 
thing  about  him  which  makes  everybody  love  him. 
He  believed  in  his  star;  there  was  around  him  the 
romance  of  the  Emperor's  prophecy  and  the  romance 
of  the  career  which  is,  we  believe,  about  to  begin 
now;  there  was  always  a  glamour  about  Francois." 

"Yes,"  Pietro  agreed.  "The  glamour  of  his  cour 
age,  Alixe,  of  loyalty  and  unselfishness;  the  qual 
ities  which  make  what  people  call  his  charm.  Fran- 
^ois  is  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  believe,  Alixe." 

Pietro  stopped,  then  went  on  with  an  unaccus 
tomed  eloquence. 

"Whatever  may  be  the  fibers  from  which  souls 
are  woven,  those  of  Francois  were  so  adjusted  from 
his  birth  that  things  hard  to  most  of  us  are  easy  to 
him.  It  has  never  been  an  effort  for  Francois  to 
love  mankind  and  to  believe  the  best  of  every  one. 
Also,  things  unreal  to  most  are  his  realities.  He 
lives  very  close  to  that  line  over  which  is  inspiration 
or  madness — men  call  it  either,  according  as  it  suc 
ceeds  or  fails  in  this  world.  There  are  questions 
yet  to  be  understood,  I  believe,  which  will  account 
for  Frangois'  trick  of  vision-seeing.  Perhaps  a 
hundred  years  from  now,  perhaps  five  hundred, 


THE   THIRD   WISH  385 

people  will  know  things  about  the  human  mind 
which  may  make  clear  that  strange  gift  of  his.  It 
may  be  that  there  are  powers  of  the  mind  not  now 
understood.  There  may  be  a  world  of  mental  possi 
bility  beneath  consciousness." 

Pietro  talked  on,  the  silent  Pietro,  as  if  deliver 
ing  a  lecture.  He  had  read  much  and  thought 
much;  it  was  seldom  he  spoke  of  the  speculations 
which  often  filled  his  scholarly  mind;  to-day  it 
seemed  easy  to  talk  of  everything.  Joy  had  set 
wide  all  the  doors  of  his  being.  Alixe  opened  her 
eyes  in  astonishment. 

"Pietro!  You  are — talking  like  a  book!  But  it 
is  true;  something  of  that  sort  has  come  to  me,  too 
— which  proves  it  to  be  true.  I  have  felt  always 
that  Francois  had  notes  in  him  which  are  not  on 
our  pianos."  Pietro  smiled,  looking  at  her. 

"And  yet,  Alixe,  you  do  not  love  Francois,  with 
all  these  gifts  and  all  his  power  over  hearts — but 
only  commonplace  me?" 

Alixe  straightened  against  his  arm.  "Monsieur 
the  Marquis  Zappi,  the  gentleman  I— care  for,  is 
not  commonplace.  I  thank  you  not  to  say  it,"  she 
shot  at  him,  and  then,  melting  to  a  sudden  in 
tensity,  she  put  a  hand  on  each  side  of  his  dark  face 
and  spoke  earnestly.  "Pietro,  dear,  listen.  I  believe 


386  THE    MARSHAL 

I  always  cared  for  you.  When  I  was  little  it  hurt 
me  to  have  Francois  forever  the  one  to  do  the  dar 
ing  things.  Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  scold 
at  you  because  you  would  not  fight  him?"  Pietro 
smiled  again.  "Then  he  was  captain  of  the  school 
and  you  only  a  private,  and  I  cried  about  that  when 
I  was  alone  at  night.  And  when  you  went  off  to 
Italy  so  quietly,  with  never  a  word  said  about  the 
danger,  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  doing  a  fine 
deed — I  thought  it  a  commonplace  that  you  should 
go  back  to  your  country,  till  Frangois  opened  my 
eyes." 

"Frangois?"  Pietro  asked. 

"Yes.  The  day  before  he  went  to  join  you  we 
were  riding  together  and  he  told  me  what  it  meant 
to  be  a  patriot  in  Italy  under  the  Austrians.  That 
day  I  realized  how  unbearable  it  would  be  if  any 
thing  happened  to  you.  But  I  thought  I  cared  for 
Frangois;  if  he  had  spoken  that  day  I  should  have 
told  him  that  I  cared  for  him.  But  he  did  not ;  he 
went — and  was  in  prison  five  years." 

"And  all  that  time  I  believed  you  loved  him,  and 
were  mourning  for  him,"  Pietro  said  gently. 

"I  half  believed  it  too,"  Alixe  answered.  "Yet 
all  the  time  I  was  jealous  for  you,  Pietro,  for  it 
was  still  Frangois  who  was  the  hero — not  you. 


THE    THIRD    WISH  387 

Then  when  there  came  a  question  of  his  rescue  I 
was  mad  with  the  desire  to  have  you  do  it — and 
you  did  it." 

"It  was  still  Francois  who  was  the  hero,"  Pietro 
said.  "Only  the  commonplace  things  fell  to  me,  as 
is  fitting." 

"No,"  Alixe  cried.  "I  know  better  now.  Was  it 
commonplace  the  other  day  when  you  saved  little 
Antoinette  Tremblay  and  lamed  yourself  for — 
months,  maybe?  That  was  enough  for  a  lifetime, 
Pietro.  And  you  have  never  failed  any  one — not 
once.  As  Francois  said,  you  are  'a  heart  of  gold,  a 
wall  of  rock'." 

Her  voice  dropped.  She  laid  her  hand  against 
his  shoulder  and  spoke,  in  a  quick  cautious  way. 

"But  all  that  is  immaterial.  I  just  love  you — • 
that's  the  point."  A  moment  later  she  spoke  again. 
"I  want  to  finish  telling  you — and  then  we  need 
never  speak  of  it  again.  I  did  think  you  were — 
commonplace.  And  yet  I  knew  in  my  heart  you 
were  not,  for  I  resented  your  seeming  so.  So  I  urged 
you  into  danger.  I  wanted  you  to  be  a  hero.  I  had 
that  echo  of  a  schoolgirl's  romance  about  Fran- 
qois  in  my  mind,  and  I  clung,  all  along,  to  the  idea 
that  I  loved  him  and  that  perhaps  he  secretly  loved 
me  but  would  not  say  it  because  he  was  poor  and  a 


388  THE    MARSHAL 

peasant;  that  he  was  waiting  till  his  future  was 
made.  Then,  one  day,  only  the  other  day,  he  told 
me  that  he  had  asked  three  wishes  of  life — 'of  the 
good  fairies'  he  said.  One  was  to  make  Prince 
Louis  Emperor,  one  was  to  be  Marshal  of  France; 
the  third — "  she  stopped. 

"What?"  Pietro  demanded,  his  mouth  a  bit  rigid. 

Alixe  flushed  and  smiled  and  took  Pietro's  big 
hand  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it.  "That  I  should — 
love  you,  Monsieur.  He  said  he  had  wished  that 
all  his  life." 

"May  heaven  grant  him  his  wish,"  said  Pietro 
fervently,  and  then,  reflecting,  "It  seems  a  strange 
wish  for  Francois.  You  are  sure,  Alixe?" 

"Yes,  he  said  so,"  Alixe  insisted.  "Our  dear 
Frangois,"  she  went  on  softly,  and  the  blue  intensity 
of  her  eyes  grew  misty.  "Dear  Francois,"  she  re 
peated,  "it  is  only  he  who  could  have  had  those 
three  wishes.  The  single  one  that  was  for  himself 
was  not  because  he  cared  for  it  himself,  but  because 
it  was  the  Emperor's  prophecy." 

"I  always  thought,"  Pietro  spoke  slowly,  "that 
it  was  not  indeed  for  himself  that  he  wished  to  be 
a  Marshal  some  day,  but  because  it  might  make  him, 
in  a  manner,  your  equal.  It  was  for  you." 

"For   me!"     Alixe   was   astonished.      "I   never 


THE    THIRD    WISH  389 

thought  of  that.  I  think  you  thought  of  it,  Pietro, 
only  because  you — cared  for  me — and  thought 
Frangois  must  care  also." 

"Yes,  I  thought  he  cared,"  Pietro  considered.  "I 
can  not  believe  otherwise  yet." 

"You  may  believe  it."  Alixe  was  firm.  "For  he 
said  that  what  he  had  wished  always  was  that  I 
should — love  you.  I  did  it  mostly  to  please  Fran 
gois,"  she  added  serenely. 

And  Pietro's  response  to  that  was  apt,  but  not  to 
be  given  here.  The  minds  of  these  two  happy  lovers 
were  full  of  that  third  who  had  been  so  close  always, 
to  each  of  them. 

"Pietro,"  Alixe  spoke  earnestly,  coming  back  to 
the  same  subject,  "you  know  that  I  love  Frangois — 
of  course.  But  you  do  not  know  in  what  way.  I 
love  him  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  saints — but  also 
as  if  he  were  a  helpless  little  child.  Yet  not — Pietro 
— as  if  he  were — the  man  I  love.  I  would  give  my 
life  for  him  in  a  rush  of  delight,  if  he  needed  it. 
But  I  know  now,  whatever  were  my  vague  dreams 
in  past  years,  that  it  is  not  in  Frangois  to  care  for 
a  woman  as  a  human  man.  Somehow,  among  all 
his  wonderful  qualities  that  one  thing  was  left  out. 
He  never  could  have  cared  for  me  so  that — the 
touch  of  my  hand  counted,  or — or  so  that  all  other 


390  THE    MARSHAL 

women  should  seem — different.  I  think,  indeed, 
that  if  some  dear  girl  should  have  loved  him  he 
might  easily  have  married  her  out  of  pure  friend 
ship  and  gentleness,  not  knowing  what  the  real 
love  of  a  man  to  a  woman  is  like.  That  is  impos 
sible  to  him." 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  Pietro,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"You  know  I  am  not  abusing  our  Francois," 
Alixe  protested.  "Why,  Pietro,  my  father  believes, 
and  I  believe,  that  if  affairs  should  so  happen  that  he 
has  his  opportunity  he  may  yet  be  one  of  the  great 
characters  in  history.  My  father  says  he  is  made  up 
of  inspirations,  illuminations — and  limitations." 

"Yes,"  said  Pietro  thoughtfully.  "He  has  the 
faults  of  brilliancy  and  fearlessness.  He  judges  too 
rapidly.  If  he  were  afraid  ever — if  he  saw  the 
other  side  of  a  question  ever,  his  judgment  would 
be  safer.  It  may  well  happen  that  be  will  be  one  of 
the  great  men  of  Europe;  it  may  also  happen  that 
by  some  single  act  of  mismanagement  he  will  throw 
away  his  career — or  his  life.  God  keep  him  safe!" 
Pietro  said  simply. 

And  Alixe  echoed  it — "God  keep  him  safe !"  And 
then,  "I  am  going  to  write  him,  Pietro — about  us. 
My  father  knows  where  to  reach  him  at  Boulogne. 


THE    THIRD    WISH  391 

I  am  going  to  say  just  a  word — that  what  he  has 
wished  for  all  his  life  is  true.  It  will  get  to  him  the 
night  before  the  battle." 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  right,  Alixe?"  Pietro 
asked  doubtfully. 

"Sure,"  said  Alixe  buoyantly. 

"Give  him  my  love,  then,"  said  Pietro. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE    NIGHT    BEFORE 

OUT  in  the  dark,  in  the  harbor  of  Boulogne,  the 
ship  Edinburgh  Castle  lay  rocking  in  the 
wind.  Prince  Louis  Bonaparte,  who  had  chartered 
her,  and  the  handful  of  his  followers  who  had  sailed 
with  him  on  her  from  England  had  disembarked 
quietly  at  twilight,  and  in  small  companies  had  suc 
ceeded  in  entering  the  town  and  the  quarters  of  the 
officers  who  were,  in  France,  the  nucleus  and  the 
hope  of  their  attempt.  In  the  rooms  of  Lieutenant 
Aladenize,  the  host  of  the  Prince,  a  short  council 
had  been  held  to  go  over  once  more  the  plans  which 
had  been  discussed  and  settled  by  letter  for  weeks 
already.  The  work  was  carefully  arranged;  there 
(was  almost  nothing  to  be  changed,  and  the  little 
company  of  men  who  were  trying  so  large  a  fate, 
scattered,  with  grave  faces,  with  quiet  good  nights  to 
the  Prince  who  might  to-morrow  night  be  their  Em 
peror,  to  the  Prince  for  whose  sake  they  might  to 
morrow  night  be  any  or  all  ruined  men  or  dead  men. 

392 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  393 

Charles  Thelin,  his  valet  of  many  years,  unpacked 
his  Highness'  belongings  busily  in  Lieutenant  Alacl- 
enize's  bedroom;  the  Prince  heard — subconsciously 
attentive  to  small  things — as  the  servant  moved 
about,  yet  he  stood  lost  in  his  thoughts,  as  the  last  of 
ficer  left  him.  One  hand  lay  on  a  table  littered  with 
papers  of  the  expedition ;  the  gray  dull  eyes  were 
fixed  yet  on  the  door  that  had  shut  out  his  friends. 
There  was  no  hint  of  wavering  in  the  poised  mind ; 
there  was  no  shadow  of  doubt  of  his  destiny,  yet 
the  man  was  very  human,  and  to-night  great  lone 
liness  seized  him.  These  good  fellows  who  were 
risking  their  lives  and  their  fortunes  for  him  were 
devoted  to  him  without  doubt,  yet  what  did  it 
amount  to?  That  they  hoped  for  advancement 
through  him,  it  would  be  absurd  to  resent ;  one  and 
all  they  believed  that  he  would  be  Emperor;  they 
knew  that  he  would  be  grateful ;  their  fortunes  were 
made  if  to-morrow  should  succeed.  They  had  much 
friendliness  for  him — he  realized  that  under  his 
father's  taciturn  manner  he  had  his  mother's  gift 
of  winning  hearts  and  that  his  followers  loved  him 
— in  a  way.  But  what  did  it  amount  to — love  of 
followers  for  a  Prince?  He  longed  to-night  for 
something  more  personal,  and  suddenly,  with  a 
pang,  he  knew  what  he  wanted — like  the  homesick 


394  THE    MARSHAL 

lad  who  had  cried  himself  to  sleep  at  the  Tuilleries 
twenty- five  years  before,  he  wanted  his  mother. 

The  tie  between  Hortense  and  this  youngest  and 
dearest  son  had  been  close,  and  this  was  the  first 
great  event  of  his  eventful  life  in  which  her  clear 
mind  and  daring  spirit  had  not  played  its  part.  Be 
fore  his  attempt  on  Strasburg,  now  three  years  ago, 
he  had  prepared  twro  letters,  one  in  case  of  success, 
one  of  failure,  to  be  sent  off  post-haste  to  the  Queen, 
ill  at  Arenenberg ;  to-night  there  was  no  one  to  write 
to,  no  one  to  whom  his  success  or  failure  meant 
more  than  to  himself.  All  that  warmth  and  eager 
hopefulness  which  had  outlasted  danger  and  exile 
and  illness  and  age,  had  gone  from  earth,  and  the 
body  of  Hortense  lay  in  the  little  church  of  Revil, 
near  Malmaison.  The  Emperor-to-be  dropped  into 
a  chair,  his  head  fell  and  his  outstretched  arms 
rustled  amid  the  plans  of  fortifications,  and  the 
writing  under  his  cheek  was  wet.  The  weakness 
was  only  for  a  moment,  and  quietly,  as  he  did  every 
thing,  the  Prince  pulled  himself  together.  He  sat 
erect  and  listened.  Thelin  was  brushing  clothes 
with  energy  in  the  bedroom,  and  through  another 
door  there  came  a  light  sound  of  a  paper  turned,  of 
a  gay  song  sung  softly.  And  a  glow  suddenly 
warmed  the  Prince's  heart ;  here  was  some  one  who 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  395 

had  known  his  mother,  who  had  been,  indeed,  for  a 
few  days  her  son ;  here  was  some  one  who  cared  for 
him,  he  believed  it,  with  a  half-consuming  flame  of 
devotion.  Since  the  man's  arrival  from  Virginia 
six  weeks  before,  to  have  him  near  himself  had  been 
a  pleasure  to  Louis  Bonaparte;  he  seemed  to  bring 
Lack  the  freshness  of  his  early  days,  of  the  young 
confidence  when  his  star  shone  for  him,  distant  per 
haps,  but  undimmed  by  the  black  clouds  which 
drove  now  across  it.  He  was  a  bit  superstitious 
about  Francois  as  well,  with  an  idea,  which  he  spoke 
to  no  one,  that  a  pivotal  interest  of  his  career  rested 
in  the  modest  figure. 

"Have  a  care  of  that  young  man,  my  Prince," 
had  said  General  Montholon,  the  old  soldier.  "Do 
not  trust  him  too  far." 

The  Prince's  faint  smile  gleamed.  "I  would  trust 
the  empire  to  his  loyal  heart,  General." 

"But  yes,"  answered  the  general  swiftly,  "to  his 
heart,  but  not  to  his  head.  He  is  of  the  dreamers — 
a  visionary.  He  might  ruin  many  months'  work 
with  one  good  intention."  And  the  Prince  reflected, 
but  did  not  agree. 

He  rose,  this  night  in  Boulogne,  as  the  paper  rus 
tled  and  the  little  French  provincial  chanson 
sounded  from  the  room  where  Francois  Beaupre, 


396  THE    MARSHAL 

now  his  secretary,  had  been  installed,  and  stepped 
to  the  closed  door. 

"De  toils  cote's  I' on  que  je  suis  bete." 

Frangois  sang  softly.  The  Prince  smiled.  He 
knew  the  song  and  its  place  in  Francois'  history. 
As  he  opened  the  door  the  singing  stopped;  the 
young  man  sprang  respectfully  to  his  feet,  a  letter 
grasped  in  his  hand,  and  stood  waiting. 

"Sire !"  he  said. 

Prince  Louis  flung  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
impulsiveness  strange  to  his  controlled  manner,  yet 
not  out  of  drawing  to  those  who  knew  him  well. 
"Ah,  Francois,"  he  cried.  "Let  the  titles  go  for  to 
night.  Say,  'Louis',  as  on  that  day  when  we  first 
saw  each  other;  when  the  four  children  played  to 
gether  in  the  old  chateau  ruins.  I  have  a  great  de 
sire  to  hear  some  one  who  loves  me  speak  my  name, 
simply  as  friend  to  friend.  With  all  those  good  fel 
lows" — and  he  tossed  a  wave  of  the  hand  to  the 
door  by  which  the  conspirators  had  left  him — "with 
my  officers,  it  is  necessary  to  keep  up  formality — I 
realize  it.  But  you,  my  inspired  peasant,  are-  differ 
ent.  You  stand  in  no  class;  you  would  guard  my 
dignity  more  quickly  than  I,  myself.  I  can  trust  it 
to  you.  The  memory  of  my  mother's  voice  calling 
me  'Louis'  is  in  your  heart;  call  me  so,  then,  to- 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  397 

night,  my  friend,  as  if  we  were  indeed  the  brothers 
we  once  had  to  be  for  five  days."  And  Francois 
smiled  his  radiant  exquisite  smile  and  answered 
quietly.  "But  yes,  my  brother — Louis."  And  went 
on,  "I  believe  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night,  Louis.  I 
believe  I  am  too  happy  to  sleep." 

As  one  reads  a  novel  for  relaxation  in  the  strain 
of  a  critical  business  affair,  Prince  Louis  caught  at 
the  distraction  of  this  side  issue.  The  next  morning 
was  planned  to  the  last  detail ;  there  was  nothing  to 
do  till  daylight,  yet  he  could  not  sleep  at  present. 
Here  was  a  romance  of  some  sort.  He  sank  back 
on  the  cushions  of  the  couch  of  Lieutenant  Aladen- 
ize's  smoking  room  and  put  his  feet  up  luxuriously, 
and  slowly  lighted  a  cigar  of  Havana. 

"Tell  me,"  he  ordered,  and  the  gentleness  of  ap 
peal  was  in  the  order. 

"Sire" — the  young  man  began — and  corrected 
himself.  "Louis,"  he  said.  The  Prince  smiled 
dimly.  "Since  our  landing  I  have  known  that  a 
wonderful  thing  has  happened  to  me.  It  is" — he 
spoke  lower — "it  is  the  love  of  the  woman  who  is 
to  me  the  only  one  in  the  world." 

Prince  Louis,  extended  on  the  couch  smoking,  a 
picture  of  expressionless  inattention,  missing  not 
an  inflection,  cast  his  mind  back  rapidly  many  years. 


398  THE    MARSHAL 

There,  a  vague  memory  now,  he  found  a  picture  of 
a  spirited,  white-clad,  little  girl  framed  in  the  ruins 
of  the  old  castle;  of  a  boy  stepping  to  her  side  to 
champion  her  sudden  embarrassment.  The  heavy- 
lidded  eyes  turned  a  kindly  glance  on  the  erect  fig 
ure  in  its  new  uniform  of  an  officer  of  the  fortieth. 

"I  congratulate  you,  mon  ami,"  he  said  gently. 
"Is  it  by  any  chance  the  delightful  little  Mademoi 
selle  Alixe  of  the  old  chateau?" 

Beaupre  turned  scarlet.  He  was  a  marvelous 
man,  this  Prince  Louis.  How  had  he  guessed? 
"She  loves  me — I  have  here  a  letter  in  which  she 
tells  me  that  she  loves  me.  Will  his  Highness  read 
it?"  With  an  impetuous  step  forward  he  held  the 
paper  toward  Louis  Napoleon. 

"I  thank  you,"  the  Prince  said  gravely.  He  read : 

"Frangois,  what  you  have  wished  all  your  life  is 
true.  The  good  fairies  have  granted  one  of  your 
wishes  before  the  battle.  That  they  will  give  you 
the  other  two  on  the  day  of  the  battle  is  the  belief 
of  your  ALIXE." 

And  below  was  written  hurriedly,  "Pietro  sends 
his  love." 

The  Prince  gave  back  the  letter  with  a  respectful 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  399 

hand ;  then  looked  at  Francois  inquiringly.  "  'What 
you  have  wished  all  your  life,'  mon  ami?"  Fran- 
qois  laughed  happily.  "One  must  explain,  if  it  will 
not  tire  his  Highness."  And  he  told,  in  a  few 
words,  of  that  day  when  his  self-restraint  had  given 
way  and  how,  when  his  guard  was  down  and  he  was 
on  the  point  of  telling  his  lifelong  secret  love,  some 
spirit  of  perversity — but  Francois  did  not  know  it 
was  an  angel — had  caught  Alixe,  and  she  had  ac 
cused  him  of  wishing  always  that  she  might  love 
Pietro.  And  how,  meshed  in  that  same  net  of  hurt 
recklessness,  he  had  answered  in  her  own  manner — 
"Yes,"  he  had  said,  "it  was  that  which  had  been  the 
wish  of  his  life — that  Alixe  might  love  Pietro!" 
And  Francois  laughed  gaily,  telling  the  simple  en 
tanglement  to  the  Prince,  the  night  before  the  bat 
tle.  "One  sees  how  she  is  quick  and  clear-sighted, 
my  Alixe,"  he  said.  "For  she  knew  well  even  then 
it  was  not  that  I  wished."  He  stopped,  for  in  the 
quiet  contained  look  of  the  listener  an  intangible 
something  struck  a  chill  to  his  delicately-poised  sen 
sitiveness.  "What  is  it,  Louis?"  he  cried  out.  "You 
do  not  think  I  mistake  her — mistake — Alixe !" 

Prince  Louis  saw  the  dawning  of  consternation. 
Rapidly  he  considered.  Was  it  well  to  take  away  a 
man's  happiness  and  courage  just  before  a  fight? 


400  THE    MARSHAL 

He  remembered  some  words  of  Frangois  spoken 
three  years  before,  words  whose  dramatic  bareness 
had  struck  him.  "When  a  knight  of  the  old  time 
went  into  battle,"  the  young  man  had  said,  "he  wore 
on  his  helmet  the  badge  of  his  lady,  and  the  thought 
of  her  in  his  heart.  A  man  fights  better  so."  Very 
well.  This  blind  knight  should  have  his  letter,  with 
the  meaning  he  had  read  into  it,  for  his  lady's  badge, 
and  he  should  fight  to-morrow  with  the  thought  of 
her  in  his  heart.  The  letter  suggested  another  mean 
ing  to  sophisticated  Louis  Bonaparte,  but  there  is  no 
need  to  hasten  the  feet  of  unhappiness.  The  reso 
nant  French  voice  spoke  at  last  in  an  unused  accent 
of  cordiality  and  the  Prince  lied,  with  ungrudging 
graciousness. 

"Mistaken,  my  Francois!  Not  at  all.  The  little 
billet-doux  breathes  love  for  you  in  each  line — there 
is  no  question!  But,  mon  ami,  you  have  not  fin 
ished  your  story."  So  Frangois  explained  about 
the  letter  left  with  Lucy  Hampton  and  its  prema 
ture  sending.  "That  has  reached  her  now — she 
knows  now  that  I  love  her,  she  knows  what  has 
really  been  my  lifelong  wish — she  has  hurried  this," 
and  his  hand  crushed  his  note  tenderly — "she  has 
hurried  this  to  me  before  the  fight — that  I  might 
know  her  love  also — that  I  might  fight  better  for 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  401 

you,  my  Prince — Louis — with  that  joy  in  my 
heart."  Prince  Louis,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  ex 
pressionless  eyes  watching  the  rings  of  smoke  which 
he  puffed  from  his  mouth — ring  after  ring,  mount 
ing  in  dream-like  procession  to  the  low  ceiling,  con 
sidered  again.  Somewhere  in  the  chain  of  events 
of  this  love-affair  his  keen  practical  sense  felt  a  link 
that  did  not  fit — a  link  forced  into  connection. 
Vaguely  he  discerned  how  it  was — something  had 
happened  to  the  Virginian  letter — there  had  been  a 
confusion  somewhere.  To  him  the  four  words  of 
Alixe's  postscript  were  final.  "Pietro  sends  his 
love."  A  subconscious  reasoning  made  him  certain 
that  Pietro  would  not  have  come  into  such  a  letter 
if  it  had  been  indeed  a  love-letter;  that  the  three 
lines  of  writing  just  before  the  battle  could  not  have 
held  another  man's  name,  if  they  had  been  written 
to  the  man  whom  she  loved.  Very  dimly,  very 
surely  the  Prince  concluded  these  things;  and  then 
he  lowered  his  cigar,  and  his  gray  dull  eyes  came 
down  from  the  ceiling  and  rested,  kindly,  on  the 
radiant  face.  "You  are  right,  my  friend.  It  was  an 
exquisite  thought  of  your  lady-love  to  put  this  other 
weapon,  this  bright  sword  of  happiness  into  your 
hand,  to  fight  with  to-morrow.  Mon  Dieu,  we  will 
reward  her  by  sending  her  back  a  Marshal's  baton 


402  THE    MARSHAL 

by  you;  a  Marshal's  baton  to-morrow,  Francois! 
How  would  it  sound,  par  exemple,  to  say  'Madame 
la  Marechale'?" 

The  light  from  Francois'  eyes  was  like  a  lamp. 

"My  Prince — Sire — there  are  three  things  I  have 
desired  all  my  life,  all  great  things,  but  of  them  that 
one — the  baton  of  a  Marshal — is  the  least.  If  I 
might  win  her  love — I  have  said;  if  I  might  help 
put  you  in  Napoleon's  place  and  shout  'Vive  I'Em- 
pereur'  for  you  on  the  throne  of  France;  if  I  might 
fulfil  the  Emperor's  prophecy  and  be  not  a  'Mar 
shal  some  day'  any  longer  but  a  Marshal  of 
your  empire — it  is  asking  much  of  one  lifetime, 
above  all  for  a  man  born  a  peasant,  is  it  not?  Yet 
of  those  three  wishes  one  wonderful  fulfilment  has 
come  to  me" — he  gripped  his  letter  closer — "and 
one,  I  believe  to-morrow  brings.  Before  to-morrow 
night" — his  great  eyes  were  lifted  toward  the  ceil 
ing  of  the  room,  and  in  them  was  the  rapt  look  of 
the  child  of  the  farm-house  in  the  Jura,  a  look  of 
a  seer  of  visions,  a  look  that  caught  at  the  Prince's 
nerves,  and  made  him  draw  a  breath  quickly. 
"Something  above  myself  tells  me,"  Francois  said 
slowly,  and  the  words  came  with  a  languid  power, 
as  if  his  personality  were  a  medium,  "that  before 
to-morrow  night  the  officers  who  stand  about  you 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE  403 

shall  hail  you  Emperor  over  the  body  of  a  man  who 
lies  before  you." 

In  the  silence,  the  Prince's  watch  could  be  heard 
ticking.  Francois  shivered  violently. 
I  "Ugh!"  he  said,  his  teeth  chattering.  "It  gives 
me  a  crise  de  nerfs',  that  trick  of  vision-seeing.  I 
do  not  like  it,  and  yet  at  times  it  seizes  me.  Why 
should  it  come  to  a  man  happy  as  I  am — a  man  who 
has  dared  ask  three  enormous  wishes  of  the  good 
fairies;  who  holds  one  of  them  in  his  hand" — he 
lifted  the  letter — "who  sees  another  in  easy  reach, 
and  who,"  he  smiled  brilliantly,  "who  will  be  well 
content  without  the  third,  my  Prince,  the  first  two 
being  his."  He  shivered  again.  "Is  the  night  raw? 
It  is  as  if  I  were  in  a  grave,  this  coldness,"  he  said, 
looking  about  with  a  disturbed  gaze,  "yet  my  life  is 
just  beginning." 

The  Prince  rose  and  tossed  his  cigar  to  the  fire 
place.  "It  is  simply  that  you  are  tired,  Francois," 
he  said  in  the  tranquil  tones  which  no  peril  dis 
turbed.  "The  nerves  of  us  all  are  stretched  and 
yours  are  the  finest  strung.  Go  to  bed,  and  at  day 
light  you  will  be  warm  enough,  with  the  work  that 
awaits  us.  Sleep  well — good  night,  my  friend." 

Later,  in  the  darkness  of  his  chamber,  Prince 
Louis  lay  awake,  his  imagination  filled  with  the  man 


404  THE    MARSHAL 

whose  dramatic  personality  appealed  to  him  as  few 
had  ever  done.  He  thought  of  his  own  life,  accord 
ing  to  his  lights  not  a  bad  life,  radically  strong  and 
radically  gentle,  yet  complicated,  abnormal  from 
its  start,  with  many  shadows  and  many  stains ;  then 
'of  the  crystal  clearness  of  this  other's,  with  his 
three  wishes  in  which  he  trusted  as  simply  as  a  child 
would  trust  to  the  fairies.  A  smile  almost  tender 
stole  across  the  mask-like  features  in  the  dark. 
"There  is  no  doubt  but  the  girl  will  marry  the  mar 
quis,"  he  reflected.  "Yet  I  am  glad  I  left  him  his 
hope  and  his  happiness."  A  vision  of  Francois' 
beatified  look  rose  before  him. 

"A  man  fights  better  so,"  the  Prince  murmured 
aloud,  and,  his  own  sadness  forgotten  in  another 
man's  joy,  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTTR  XXXIX 

THE    BUGLE-CALL 

THE  gray  dawn  of  a  Sunday  morning  began 
to  break  over  the  sleeping  city  of  Boulogne, 
yet  earlier  than  the  dawn  anxious  eyes  opened  to 
watch,  and  men's  hearts  beat  fast  to  meet  it.  Scat 
tered  in  lodging-houses  and  barracks  Louis  Na 
poleon's  followers  were  waiting  before  daylight  for 
the  part  they  had  to  play.  No  man  among  them 
was  as  quiet,  as  little  nervous  as  the  Prince,  yet  his 
as  well  as  every  gallant  heart  of  them  felt  a  throb 
of  relief  with  its  bound  of  excitement  when  a  trum 
pet  from  the  Austerlitz  barracks,  the  barracks  of 
the  fourth  artillery,  Napoleon's  own  regiment,  sud 
denly  sounded. 

It  was  the  signal,  and  in  a  moment  the  Prince  and 
his  escort  were  moving  down  the  dark  street  toward 
Colonel  Vaudrey's  quarters,  toward  that  ringing 
note  not  yet  died  out  from  the  pulsing  air.  One 
could  see  a  little  bustle  through  the  drowsy  place — 
a  head  out  of  a  window  here  and  there,  blinking 

405 


406  THE    MARSHAL 

puzzled  eyes  to  see  what  the  unusual  summons,  the 
early  trumpet  note  might  mean.  But  a  handful  of 
men  in  uniform  was  no  sensation  in  the  garrison 
town  and  the  good  citizens  went  back  to  their  morn 
ing  naps. 

The  city  was  tranquil  when  Prince  Louis  reached 
the  barrack-gate,  and  the  soldier-blood  in  him 
rushed  in  a  tide  when  he  saw  sixty  mounted  artil 
lerymen  posted  at  the  entrance,  and  beyond,  in  the 
yard,  statue-like,  warlike,  silent,  the  regiment 
formed  in  square.  If  the  fourth  artillery  followed 
its  colonel,  if  the  day  went  well,  this  was  the  core 
of  his  army.  Colonel  Vaudrey  was  in  the  center  of 
the  square;  the  Prince  marched  quietly  to  him  and 
as  he  came,  with  a  sharp  simultaneous  clatter  that 
was  the  music  of  Heaven  to  his  ears,  the  whole  regi 
ment  presented  arms. 

In  the  glowing  light  the  soldiers  who  fronted 
toward  him  could  see  that  the  colorless  face  turned 
grayer,  but  that  was  all,  and  quickly  Colonel  Vau 
drey  spoke  to  his  men. 

"Soldiers  of  the  fourth  artillery,"  he  said 
loudly,  "a  revolution  begins  to-day  under  the 
nephew  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  He  is  before 
you,  and  comes  to  lead  you.  He  has  returned  to  his 
land  to  give  back  the  people  their  rights,  the  army 


THE    BUGLE-CALL  407 

its  greatness.  He  trusts  in  your  courage,  your  de 
votion  to  accomplish  this  glorious  mission.  My  sol 
diers,  your  colonel  has  answered  for  you.  Shout 
then  with  me  'Long  live  Napoleon!  Long  live  the 
Emperor.' ' 

The  terse  soldierly  words  were  hardly  finished 
when  the  regiment,  strongly  Bonapartist  always, 
carried  off  its  feet  now  by  the  sight  of  the  Prince, 
by  the  honor  of  being  the  first  to  whom  he  came, 
caught  up  the  cry,  and  the  deep  voices  sent  it  roll 
ing  down  the  empty  streets.  Louis  Bonaparte 
standing  erect,  motionless,  impassive  as  always, 
wondered  if  a  pulse  might  beat  harder  than  this 
and  not  break.  He  held  up  his  hand,  and  rapidly, 
yet  with  lingering  shouts  of  enthusiasm,  the  tu 
mult  quieted.  The  regiment  to  its  farthest  man 
heard  every  word  of  the  strong  tones. 

"Soldiers,"  he  said,  "I  have  come  to  you  first 
because  between  you  and  me  there  are  great  mem 
ories.  With  you  the  Emperor,  my  uncle,  served  as 
captain;  with  you  he  won  glory  at  the  siege  of  Tou 
lon;  you  opened  the  gates  of  Grenoble  to  him  when 
he  came  back  from  Elba.  Soldiers,  the  honor  of  be 
ginning  a  new  empire  shall  be  yours ;  yours  shall  be 
the  honor  of  saluting  first  the  eagle  of  Austerlitz 
and  Wagram."  He  caught  the  standard  from  an 


408  THE    MARSHAL 

officer  and  held  it  high.  "It  is  the  sign  of  French 
glory;  it  has  shone  over  every  battle-field;  it  has 
passed  through  every  capitol  of  Europe.  Soldiers, 
rally  to  the  eagle !  I  trust  it  to  you — we  will  march 
to-day  against  the  oppressors,  crying  'Long  live 
France'." 

One  who  has  not  heard  a  regiment  gone  mad  can 
not  know  how  it  was.  With  deafening  clatter  and 
roar  every  sword  was  drawn  and  the  shakos  flew 
aloft  and  again  and  again  and  again  the  men's  deep 
voices  sent  up  in  broken  magnificent  chorus  the 
great  historic  cry  to  which  armies  had  gone  into 
battle. 

"Vive  I'Empereur!  Vive  Napoleon!" 
The  souls  of  a  thousand  men  were  on  fire  with 
memories  and  traditions,  with  a  passion  of  conse 
cration  to  a  cause,  and  as  if  the  spell  of  the  name 
grew  stronger  with  its  repetition  they  shouted  over 
and  over,  in  tremendous  unison,  over  and  over  and 
over. 

"Vive  Napoleon!  Vive  I'Empereur!" 
It  was  necessary  at  last  for  the  quiet  slender 
young  man  who  was  the  storm-center  to  raise  his 
hand  again,  and  with  a  word,  with  the  glimmer  of 
a  smile  to  speak  his  gratitude — to  stop  the  storm. 
There  was  much  to  be  done.  The  fourth  artillery 


THE    BUGLE-CALL  409 

was  but  one  of  several  regiments  to  be  gained  if  the 
victory  were  to  be  complete.  Colonel  Lombard  was 
despatched  to  a  printing  office  with  proclamations 
to  be  struck  off;  Lieutenant  Laity  hurried  away  to 
his  battalion;  a  detachment  was  sent  to  hold  the 
telegraph  office;  the  tumult  once  quieted,  the  yard 
was  a  scene  of  efficient  business,  for  all  this  had 
been  planned  and  each  officer  knew  his  work.  In  a 
very  few  moments  the  officers  of  the  third  artil 
lery  who  were  with  the  Prince  had  hastened  to  their 
quarters,  another  had  been  sent  to  arouse  the  forty- 
sixth  of  the  line,  at  the  Place  d'  Alton  barracks,  and 
shortly  Prince  Louis  himself  was  on  his  way  to  the 
same  place.  Through  the  streets  of  the  city,  no 
longer  empty,  he  passed  with  his  officers,  and  the 
people  poured  from  their  houses,  and  joined  and 
answered  the  shouts  of  the  soldiers. 

"Vive  I'Empereur!"  the  soldiers  cried.  "It  is  the 
nephew  of  Napoleon,"  and  the  citizens  threw  back, 
"Vive  I'Empereur!  It  is  the  son  of  the  honest 
king  of  Holland !  It  is  the  grandson  of  Josephine !" 

They  pressed  so  close  about  the  small  figure  in 
its  Swiss  uniform  of  a  colonel  that  for  a  moment 
he  was  separated  from  his  officers,  and  Colonel 
Vaudrey,  smiling  for  all  his  military  discipline,  was 
forced  to  order  his  mounted  artillerymen  to  clear 


410  THE    MARSHAL 

the  road.  Every  moment  an  old  soldier  broke  out 
of  the  mass  and  embraced  the  eagle  which  Lieu 
tenant  de  Querelles  carried  proudly  high  above  all 
this  emotion;  the  soldiers'  eyes  flashed  with  suc 
cess;  the  Prince's  heart  beat  high  for  joy  to  know 
that  he  had  not  misread  the  heart  of  army  or  peo 
ple.  When  the  column  passed  the  gendarmerie  the 
guard  turned  out  and  presented  arms,  shouting, 
"Long  live  the  Emperor!"  So  he  went  through  the 
streets  of  Boulogne,  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
eight  long  years  before  he  came  to  his  own,  and 
marched  in  triumph  and  acclamation  to  a  failure. 

And  close  by  his  side,  his  look  as  radiant  as  the 
Prince's  look  was  contained  and  impassive,  marched 
always  Frangois  Beaupre.  The  hard-earned  mili 
tary  knowledge,  the  patient  toil  of  preparation  had 
come  into  play,  and  in  a  hundred  ways  the  man  had 
been  useful.  With  no  exact  rank  as  yet,  but  ready 
at  any  moment,  eager  for  the  hardest  task,  never 
asking  for  rest,  quick-witted,  resourceful,  officers 
as  well  as  Prince  had  developed  a  habit  of  turning 
to  Beaupre  for  service  after  service.  And  always 
they  were  met  with  a  glad  consent  which  encour 
aged  them  to  ask  more  until  the  Prince  had  said : 

"It  is  the  case  of  the  willing  horse ;  I  will  not  per- 


THE    BUGLE-CALL  411 

mit  that  my  right-hand  man  be  worked  to  death — it 
must  stop." 

To-day,  however,  Francois  had  a  definite  duty  of 
responsibility.  While  the  Prince  marched,  gather 
ing  strength  at  every  yard,  through  the  town  toward 
the  Place  d'  Alton  at  its  farther  side,  Colonel 
Couard  of  the  third  artillery  had  gone  to  pro 
claim  the  great  news  to  his  regiment  and  to  hold 
them  ready.  In  case  of  success  at  the  Place  d'  Al 
ton,  Beaupre  was  to  go  back  and  bring  them  to 
join  the  Prince.  In  case  of  failure  they  were  to  be 
his  reserve.  The  Place  d'  Alton  barracks  lay  be 
tween  town  and  ramparts,  to  be  reached  from  the 
town  side  only  by  a  narrow  lane ;  but  the  ramparts 
commanded  with  a  large  open  space  the  yard  where 
the  soldiers  assembled.  If  the  Prince  entered  from 
the  town  side,  from  the  street — Faubourg  Pierre — 
only  an  escort  could  go  with  him.  If  he  went  by 
the  ramparts  the  whole  enthusiastic  fourth  artil 
lery  might  be  at  his  back.  This  then  was  the  route 
chosen. 

But  as  the  Prince  and  the  regiment  and  the  swing 
ing  shouting  mass  of  citizens  made  its  way  toward 
the  quarters,  suddenly,  too  late,  the  officers  about 
his  Highness  saw  that  some  one  had  blundered. 


4i2  THE    MARSHAL 

Somewhere  in  the  van  a  man  had  lost  his  head,  had 
forgotten,  and  the  compact  inelastic  procession  had 
been  led  toward  the  approach  from  the  Faubourg 
Pierre,  the  narrow  lane  at  the  side  toward  the  city. 
It  was  a  serious  mistake,  yet  not  of  necessity  fatal, 
and  at  all  events  they  must  make  the  best  of  it.  The 
Prince  could  not  make  a  dramatic  entrance  at  the 
head  of  a  shouting  regiment,  but  for  all  that  he 
might  win  the  forty-sixth. 

He  did  win  the  forty-sixth.  Something  had  hap 
pened  to  the  officer  sent  to  arouse  them — another 
slip  in  the  chain — and  instead  of  being  drawn  up 
in  the  yard  they  were  getting  ready  for  Sunday  in 
spection,  but  they  flocked  to  the  windows  at  the 
noise,  they  rushed  into  the  yard  at  the  name  of 
Napoleon.  An  old  sergeant  of  the  Imperial  Guard 
ran  forward  and  kissed  Prince  Louis'  hand,  and  the 
reserved  face  lightened — he  knew  the  value  of  a  bit 
of  sentiment  with  Frenchmen;  he  was  not  wrong; 
in  a  moment  the  line  regiment  had  caught  up  the 
cries  of  "Vive  I'Empereur!"  raised  by  the  artillery 
men,  and  the  earlier  scene  of  the  Austerlitz  bar 
racks  was  being  repeated  here.  Prince  Louis,  pale 
and  composed  in  the  center  of  the  roar  of  voices, 
the  seething  sea  of  excitement,  heard  a  word  at  his 
ear  and  turned. 


THE    BUGLE-CALL  413 

"Sire,  it  is  success.  I  go  to  bring  up  your  Ma 
jesty's  other  regiment,"  Francois  said,  and  the 
Prince  answered  quietly : 

"Yes,  it  is  success.   Go,  uwn  ami." 

In  a  moment  the  messenger  had  thrown  himself 
on  the  horse  of  an  artilleryman  and  forced  a  way 
through  the  recoiling  mass,  down  the  lane,  and  out 
to  the  Faubourg  Pierre.  In  the  free  street  he  gal 
loped  the  horse,  through  the  windings  that  he  had 
learned  with  this  moment  in  his  mind.  The  third 
was  drawn, up  waiting,  and  a  shout  like  a  clap 
of  thunder  greeted  his  news.  Buoyant,  proud,  he 
took  his  place  by  the  colonel  at  their  head,  and  gaily 
the  joyful  march  back  began.  The  sun  had  come 
from  behind  the  clouds  of  early  morning  and  shone 
gloriously  on  glancing  steel,  on  the  brilliant  swing 
ing  line  of  the  regiment.  Low  branches  of  trees 
brushed  Francois'  shoulder  as  he  rode  and  the  touch 
thrilled  him,  for  he  knew  by  it  that  this  was  true 
and  not  a  dream,  and  he,  Francois  Beaupre,  was 
leading  a  regiment  of  France  to  France's  Emperor. 
The  glory,  the  joy  of  his  happy  life,  culminated  in 
those  bright  moments. 

Suddenly  a  man  galloped  from  a  side  street,  in 
front  of  the  advancing  troops;  he  stopped,  saluted, 
called  a  word.  It  was  not  a  day  to  take  anything 


4H  THE    MARSHAL 

for  granted ;  Colonel  Couard  halted  the  regiment. 

"The  arsenal,"  the  man  gasped.  "They  have 
taken  Monsieur  de  Persigny  prisoner.  Monsieur  le 
General  Voirol  is  on  his  way,  but  he  is  distant.  It 
is  a  step  from  here.  The  third  artillery  could  arrive 
there  before  him — they  would  surrender — Monsieur 
de  Persigny  would  be  released" — he  stopped  breath 
less. 

The  colonel  turned  an  inquiring  look  on  Fran- 
gois.  As  the  Prince's  messenger,  as  the  man  whom 
he  had  seen  closest  to  the  Prince's  person,  he  de 
ferred  to  him,  and  Francois  realized  that  he  must 
make,  and  make  quickly,  a  momentous  decision. 
The  arsenal  was  immense  and  lightly  guarded.  De 
Persigny  had  been  sent  with  a  small  force  to  take 
it,  for  the  ammunition  it  held  might  at  any  moment 
be  of  supreme  importance.  It  seemed  that  the  de 
tachment  which  guarded  it  had  been  underrated,  for 
it  had  made  prisoners  of  De  Persigny  and  his  men, 
and  this  aide-de-camp  had  alone  escaped.  If  they 
were  to  be  rescued,  if  the  arsenal  was  to  be  gained 
for  the  Prince,  this  very  moment  must  be  seized* 
General  Voirol,  royalist,  the  commandant  at  Bou 
logne,  was  on  his  way  with  reinforcements  and  the 
third  might  well  hold  the  arsenal  against  him  but 
not  gain  it  from  him.  With  his  whole  being  con- 


THE    BUGLE-CALL  415 

centrated  Francois  thought.  The  orders  were  plain 
— to  lead  the  third  artillery  to  join  the  Prince  on 
the  ramparts.  But  there  are  times  in  history  when 
to  obey  orders  is  treachery.  Was  not  this  moment, 
heavy  with  the  right  or  wrong  of  his  decision,  one 
of  them?  Was  it  not  the  part  of  a  mind  capable  of 
greatness  to  know  and  grasp  the  flying  second  of 
opportunity?  Would  not  the  Prince  reproach  him, 
if  he  stupidly  let  this  one  chance  in  a  thousand  go 
by,  for  servile  fear  of  disobeying  orders?  He  had 
left  his  Highness  safe  with  two  regiments  at  his 
back ;  this  other  could  do  nothing  at  the  Place  d'Al- 
ton  barracks  but  swell  the  ranks ;  here,  by  a  turn  of  a 
hand,  they  might  win  for  the  cause  the  very  blood 
and  bones  of  success,  a  mighty  arsenal,  and  for 
themselves  honor  and  gratitude  from  their  Emperor. 
In  Frangois'  mind  was  a  touch  of  innocent  vanity 
that  he  should  have  the  power  to  render  so  signal  a 
service,  yet  no  thought  at  all  for  himself  or  for  the 
honor  he  might  gain  or  lose;  whole-heartedly  he 
weighed  the  reasons  why  or  why  not  it  would  be 
best  for  the  Prince. 

The  aide-de-camp's  voice  broke  in.  "My  Colonel, 
I  beg  you,  I  implore  you,  save  Monsieur  de  Per- 
signy.  The  Prince  loves  him — he  will  be  very  angry 
if  he  is  left  helpless — they  threaten  to  execute  him 


4i 6  THE    MARSHAL 

— I  myself  heard — I  implore  you,  Monsieur  le 
Colonel.  For  the  rest,  it  is  indeed  the  moment  of 
fate  to  win  the  arsenal." 

Francois'  face  lit  with  a  fire  of  decision.  "My 
Colonel,  it  is  for  the  Prince — it  would  be  his  will — 
we  must  not  let  slip  the  gift  of  destiny.  To  the 
arsenal !" 

And  while  orders  rang  out  sharply  and  the  regi 
ment  wheeled  into  sliding  lines  that  doubled  and 
parted  and  flowed  together  again  in  an  elastic 
stream  toward  the  looming  arsenal,  Francois,  with 
a  quick  word  to  De  Persigny's  aide-de-camp,  was 
writing  rapidly  on  a  bit  of  paper. 

"You  will  take  this  to  the  Prince  at  once,"  he 
ordered,  and  the  young  officer  saluted,  for  he,  too, 
knew,  as  most  of  them  did,  this  man's  anomalous 
yet  strong  hold  on  Prince  Louis. 

Francois  rode  again  to  the  colonel's  side,  and  he 
did  not  doubt  that  he  had  decided  rightly. 


CHAPTER    XU 

THE   ACCOLADE    AT    LAST 

IT  is  a  common  tragedy  that  men,  being  human, 
can  not  see  all  sides  of  a  question;  that  a  deci 
sion  right  in  one  light  may  bring  disaster  in  an 
other.  If  events  had  stayed  where  he  left  them, 
Frangois  Beaupre  and  Colonel  Couard  and  his  regi 
ment  would  have  won  honor  and  eternal  gratitude 
from  Louis  Bonaparte  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour's 
work  which  made  the  arsenal  theirs.  Events,  in 
stead  of  standing  still,  or  going  forward,  took  an 
unexpected  sinister  turn,  not  long  after  Francois' 
going. 

The  happy  Prince,  smiling  the  shadowy  smile 
which  made  his  face  winning,  stood  in  the  center  of 
triumphant  turmoil;  his  new  followers,  the  men  of 
the  forty-sixth,  crowded  about  him  shouting,  cheer 
ing,  kissing  his  hands,  and  the  loyal  fourth  artil 
lerymen  fraternized,  embraced,  congratulated  the 
men  of  the  line  regiment.  The  narrow  courtyard 
was  a  hubbub  of  rapturous  excitement,  and  the 

417 


418  THE    MARSHAL 

Prince's  officers — Montholon,  Vaudrey,  Voisin, 
Parquin,  D'Hunin,  Querelles — these  and  others 
whose  names  Frenchmen  knew,  surrounded  the 
small  figure  which  yet  had  so  much  of  royalty,  and 
laughed  and  chatted  light-heartedly.  In  a  few  mo 
ments,  when  Colonel  Laity's  engineers  and  the  third 
artillery  should  have  arrived,  the  Prince  would  have 
five  thousand  men  under  his  command.  The  great 
game  was  practically  won — Prince  Louis  was  all 
but  Emperor. 

Suddenly,  above  the  sea  of  sound,  a  commotion 
was  heard  at  the  farther  end  of  the  barrack  yard. 
The  colonel  of  the  forty-sixth,  Colonel  Talandier, 
had  arrived.  Very  loyal  to  Louis  Phillipe,  very  an 
gry  at  the  scene  before  him,  he  would  not  believe 
the  news.  He  called  excitedly,  and  the  men's  voices 
died  down  as  they  saw  him  gesticulating. 

"Soldiers,"  he  cried,  "you  are  deceived!  This 
man  for  whom  you  are  shouting  is  an  adventurer, 
an  impostor !" 

In  the  shock  of  silence  which  followed  his  words, 
another  voice  rang  out,  clear  and  indignant,  the 
voice  of  a  staff-officer  whom  they  all  knew. 

"It  is  not  the  nephew  of  the  Emperor !  It  is  the 
nephew  of  Colonel  Vaudrey!  I  recognize  him!"  the 
officer  cried  in  a  strong  staccato,  and  a  gasp  as  if 


THE    ACCOLADE    AT    LAST         419 

ice-water  had  been  scattered  went  through  the 
crowded  place. 

There  is  nothing  more  absurd  in  history  than  the 
instant  effect  of  this  quick-witted  lie.  Only  with  a 
mercurial  French  mob,  perhaps,  could  it  have  suc 
ceeded,  but  it  succeeded  here  with  hopeless  swift 
ness.  It  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth — they  were 
cheated,  tricked;  the  Emperor's  nephew,  their 
Prince,  had  not  come ;  this  young  man  was  a  make- 
believe,  a  substitute,  the  nephew  of  an  officer;  some 
of  the  soldiers  who  had  shown  most  enthusiasm 
almost  lost  their  minds  now  in  rage. 

Colonel  Talandier  began  to  form  his  men;  the 
Prince,  composed  as  ever,  yet  earnest,  swift,  tried 
to  rally  his,  but  it  was  impossible  to  start  anywhere, 
in  this  confusion,  for  line  and  artillery  had  be 
come  mixed  in  an  unmanageable  mob.  A  word 
from  either  Prince  or  colonel  and  blood  would  have 
flowed.  De  Querelles  begged  leave  to  force  a  way 
through  the  infantry  for  the  Prince.  But  Louis 
Bonaparte,  considerate  and  self-controlled  would 
not  shed  a  drop  of  blood  of  these  men  who  had 
hailed  him  Emperor  a  moment  before — he  would 
not  believe  them  his  enemies.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  midst  of  them  and  they  received  him  with  bayo 
nets  fixed,  even  forcing  him  to  parry  a  blow  or 


420  THE    MARSHAL 

two;  he  tried  to  seize  a  trooper's  horse  that  so  he 
might  be  a  rallying-point  for  his  column,  but  that 
failed,  too. 

Yet  the  steadfast  mind  kept  its  hope;  he  glanced 
every  moment  toward  the  ramparts.  The  third  must 
appear  there  shortly ;  it  could  not  be  many  minutes. 
They  would  turn  the  tide.  One  glimpse  of  that 
solid  swinging  regiment  and  the  day  would  be 
saved — and  salvation  was  certain.  The  third  was 
coming,  would  be  here  any  second — FranQois'  faith 
fulness  could  be  trusted. 

Slowly,  with  his  officers  crowding  about  him,  he 
was  driven  toward  the  barrack  wall,  and,  in  a  flash, 
from  somewhere,  a  man  was  before  him,  thrusting 
a  bit  of  paper  at  him.  With  a  swift  movement  he 
had  it  open  and  read : 

"Destiny  throws  arsenal  into  our  hands.  Have 
taken  third  artillery  to  hold  it.  I  wait  to  bring  the 
news — a  jewel  for  your  crown.  Vive  I'Empereur! 

"BEAUPRE." 

Few  men  ever  heard  Louis  Napoleon  sob,  yet  the 
officers  who  stood  about  him  at  that  moment  caught 
a  sound  that  wrung  them.  It  meant  the  end,  and 
they  knew  it.  Passionately  he  crushed  the  paper 
and  threw  it  into  the  seething  mass. 


''  Sire,  1  bring  you  the  arsenal." 


THE    ACCOLADE    AT    LAST         421 

"Fool!  He  has  thrown  away  the  empire,"  he 
hissed  through  set  teeth.  "If  I  could  run  him 
through!" 

Then,  quickly,  he  was  himself  again.  Serenely 
while  the  maddened  soldiers  pressed  on  him,  he 
turned  and  spoke  a  quiet  word  to  his  friends,  and 
then,  serenely,  too,  with  a  gaze  that  was  half  con 
temptuous,  half  friendly,  he  let  himself  be  made 
prisoner. 

Yet  the  fight  was  not  all  over  even  now.  On  the 
ramparts,  where  the  Prince  and  his  column  should 
have  been,  had  gathered  from  the  Faubourg  Pierre 
a  formidable  crowd,  who  advanced  angrily  to  his 
rescue,  and  pelted  the  line  regiment  with  stones, 
and  cried  again  and  again,  "Vive  I'Empereur!" 
Colonel  Talandier  had  to  reckon  with  a  many-sided 
trouble.  But  the  heart  of  it  was  in  his  hands,  and 
slowly  order  and  the  old  rule  were  coming  back. 

The  tumult  of  the  struggle  had  quieted,  the  vola 
tile  forty-sixth  regiment,  returned  to  its  allegiance, 
stood  formed  in  ranks,  in  appearance  as  firm  for  the 
king  as  the  everlasting  hills,  and,  at  the  end  of  the 
court  was  a  sad  and  silent,  yet  a  stately  group  of 
men,  the  Prince  who  had  almost  been  Emperor  and 
those  who  had  watched  slipping  with  his  hope,  their 
hopes  of  grandeur. 


422  THE    MARSHAL 

Suddenly  a  horse's  hoofs  rang  down  the  lane 
from  the  Faubourg;  a  rider  clattered  at  gallop  into 
the  yard  and  across  the  front  of  the  soldiers,  and 
every  one  in  the  agitated  company  saw  that  the  man 
reeling  in  his  saddle  was  wounded.  With  blind 
gaze  he  stared  about  as  he  reined  in,  and  then  he 
caught  sight  of  the  sorry  group,  the  Prince  and  his 
officers.  To  Francois  Beaupfe,  clutching  to  this 
world  by  one  thread  of  duty,  this  was  the  victorious 
Emperor  and  his  triumphant  staff.  With  a  choking 
shout  he  threw  himself  from  the  horse  and  fell,  too 
far  gone  to  stand,  at  the  Prince's  feet. 

"Sire,  I  bring  you  the  arsenal,"  he  stammered 
painfully,  loudly.  In  the  silence  of  the  courtyard 
one  heard  every  word.  "Two  wishes — good 
fairies — "  he  gasped.  And  then,  his  mouth  twist 
ing  to  a  smile,  "the  third — is  no  matter." 

Louis  Bonaparte  looked  down  at  the  man  whose 
dying  face  stared  up  at  him  in  a  rapture  of  loyalty ; 
whose  life  had  been  consecrated  to  him ;  whose  death 
was  for  him;  who  had  lost  him  an  empire.  For  a 
second  a  struggle  shook  him,  and  then  the  large 
kindness  through  which  he  came  nearest  to  great 
ness,  overflowed.  In  the  career  to  come  was  no 
finer  moment,  no  higher  inspiration  for  Prince  Louis 
than  this.  He  bent  close  to  the  glazing  eyes.  ( 


THE    ACCOLADE    AT    LAST         423 

"Courage!"  he  said  clearly.  "Courage,  mon  ami. 
Live  for  me  and  for  our  country.  Live,  my  brother 
Francois — Chevalier  Beaupre,  Marshal  of  the  Em 
pire."  And  the  Prince's  sword  flashed  out  and 
touched  his  shoulder. 

The  other  world  closing  about  him  Frangois 
heard — they  did  not  doubt  it  who  saw  the  eyes  flame 
as  a  firefly  flames  out  of  darkness,  and  when  his 
lips  stirred  they  knew  that  he  wished  to  cry  once 
more  "Vive  I'Empereur!" 

Frenchmen  all,  shaken  with  the  living  drama,  the 
ruined  men  who  stood  about  a  defeated  Prince  cried 
it  for  him — the  old  magic  cry  of  the  Bonapartes. 
.With  kepis  lifted,  as  one  man,  "Vive  I'Empereur!" 
the  deep  voices  cried,  hailing  a  lost  cause  for  a  lost 
life.  But  only  the  Prince  knew  that  a  thought  came 
after;  only  he  caught,  on  the  gasp  which  let  the  soul 
out,  a  girl's  name.  He  bent  quickly  again,  with  an 
eager  assurance,  but  it  was  late.  The  accolade 
of  a  higher  king  had  touched  his  servant,  and  the 
knightly  soul  of  Frangois  had  risen. 


THE   END 


A   ooo 


